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CJc/HOEVER  possesses  or 
hopes  to  possess  more  than 
he  needs  .  .  .  more  than  a 
house,  a  garden,  a  room  full 
of  books  ...  is  doomed  to 
keeping  static  the  order  in 
which  he  lives. 

— Ludwig  Lewisohn 

^hilip  "TDurham-j 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


The  Vital  Study  of  Literature  and 
Other  Essays 


THE  VITAL  STUDY  OF 
LITERATURE 

and  OTHER  ESSAYS 


BY 

William  Norman  Guthrie 


CHICAGO 

CHARLES  H.  SERGEL  &  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1912. 

BY 

WILLIAM  NORMAN  GUTHRIE 


PR 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Foreword 7 

The  Vital  Study  of  Literature 15 

Translation :   A  Method  for  the  Vital  Study 
of  Literature. 41 

The  Utility  of  Beauty 107 

A  Theory  and  Vindication  of  tlie  Comic 129 

The  Religious  Poetry  of  Schiller 150 

Goethe  as  Poet-Prophet 188 

Untranscendental  Optimism  and  the  Poetry 
of   George  Meredith 224 

William   Blake— Poet   and   Artist 2G8 

William  Blake— Mystic 29G 

Walt  Whitman,  the  Poetic  Artist 322 

Two  Contemporary  Mystics :  Maeterlinck  and 
Alden 344 

Appendix < 377 


FOREWORD. 


The  present  volume  cannot  claim  to  be  a  real 
book.  A  real  book  is  the  product  of  long  and  great 
love  for  some  one  inspiring  idea.  The  creative 
toil  may  have  been  intermittent,  yet  some  single 
preconceived  plan  has  secured  in  advance  the  or- 
ganic unity  of  the  finished  work.  Now  this,  that 
lies  before  the  reader,  is  but  a  loose  aggregation 
of  lectures  committed  to  paper  after  the  white 
heat  of  delivery  had  cooled,  together  with  several 
more  or  less  painstaking  and  extensive  reviews, 
written  because  of  particular  concern  in  a  con- 
temporary publication  or  for  the  promotion  of  an 
espoused  cause,  each  separately  composed  without 
any  regard  whatever  to  the  possible  or  actual  ex- 
istence of  one  another.  When,  however,  these  de- 
tached lectures  and  essays  came  to  be  collected, — 
all  but  one  of  which  appeared  at  the  time  of  their 
production  in  some  periodical — what  surprised 
not  a  little  their  compiler  and  reviewer  was  the 
inherent  unity  of  design  and  tendency  they  ex- 
hibit. To  group  them  was  no  difficult  task.  First 
were  naturally  placed  four  papers  in  which  cer- 
tain beliefs  held  and  abided  by  as  teacher  and 
lecturer  are  advocated  not  unseldom  with  what 
may,  to  the  precise  and  frigid,  seem  quite  inordi- 
nate zeal.  In  year-long  struggle  for  the  recogni- 
tion of  certain  values  aesthetic  and  intellectual. 


8  FOREWORD 

tlie  writer  had  become  unconsciously  a  special 
pleader;  lie  had  grown  paradoxical  in  method  of 
statement,  to  keep  his  audience  duly  attentive 
to  the  ignored  obvious,  and  to  the  subtly  elusive; 
oracular,  lest  admitting  exceptions,  the  rule  be 
disesteemed;  ardent,  emphatic,  even  vehement,  to 
kindle  interest  if  possible  in  the  indifferent  and 
temperamentally  non-committal. 

The  second  third  of  this  volume  consists  of  three 
studies  devoted  to  what  may  be  called  orphic 
poetry,  by  manifest  allusion  to  the  spell-power 
and  the  mystic  unintelligibility  of  that  singer,  who 
set  the  trees  deep-rooted  in  the  soil  of  convention, 
a-dancing,  and  caused  the  brute  beast  of  greed  and 
carnal  desire  to  wax  human  and  divinely  sane. 
That  myth  has  long  been  to  the  writer  a  solace 
and  a  confession  of  faith.  In  bringing  out  his 
collection  of  verse:  ''Orpheus  To-day,"  it  had 
been  given  precedence  of  every  other  theme.  In 
his  view,  the  great  poet  was  always  a  prophet  of 
glories  to  come.  Even  a  Leopardi,  in  his  direst 
lyrical  pessimisms,  fills  the  reader  with  pride  of 
breed,  akin,  as  he  feels  himself,  to  so  sincere  and 
fervent  a  disallower  of  things  as  they  are. 

The  likelihood,  indeed,  seems  to  be  that  great 
poets  shall  be  great  men  also,  even  if  not  always 
so  good  as  the  self-righteous  Ben  Jonson  affirmed, 
who  pictures  himself  as  bearing  Ms  "own  inno- 
cency  about"  him,  reckless  of  the  hazard  it  ran 
thus  of  soil  or  dent!  If  great  men,  the  great 
poets  will  doubtless  experience  a  large  vital  sym- 


FOREWORD  d 

patby  with  their  fellows.    Furthermore,  they  will 

be  organic  and  original,  that  is  spontaneous,  in 

thought,  and  wonted  to  free  initiative  as  regards 

expression.     Hardly  can  they  be  suckled  at  the 

breasts    of    contemporaneous    institutions,    and 

thrive  for  long  on  the  pure  milk  of  an  orthodox 

tradition.    They  will  cry  with  Emerson : 

"We  drink  diluted  wine, 
We  eat  ashes  foi*  bread." 

They  are,  at  all  cost  of  anxiety  and  distress  to 
themselves  and  those  they  hold  dear,  fated  to  as- 
cend (or,  as  the  case  may  appear  to  be,  descend,) 
until  they  have  explored  what  they  deem  veritable 
sources.  There  alone  can  they  brook  to  drink 
themselves  of  the  water  of  life  freely;  and  hav- 
ing quenched  their  thirst,  they  will  catch  perforce 
a  little  thereof  in  some  poetic  vessel,  and  gra- 
ciously store  it  for  the  elect  of  mankind,  to 
awake  in  them  the  ambition  of  a  similar  quest. 

The  great  poets  are  not  when  at  their  worthiest, 
professing  teachers.  A  stated  message,  so-called, 
they  rarely  intend  to  convey.  Didactic  verses,  at 
all  events,  they  abhor,  except  in  their  dotage,  or 
in  a  drowsy  hour  when  all  things  lapse  to  aesthetic 
confusion.  Pedagogues  and  mystigogues,  dema- 
gogues, and  peripatetic  venders  of  panaceas,  the 
great  poets  are  never !  But  in  their  own  spiritual 
initiations,  secrets  were  revealed  to  them  that 
must  gain  utterance,  all  the  more  prophetic  when 
unaware,  not  because  the  doctrine,  as  such,  has  to 
be  imparted,  but  that  its  emotional  concomitants 


10  FOREWORD 

of  wonder  and  worship  press  for  aesthetic  con- 
straint and  communication.  They  have  what 
seems  to  them  the  life-giving  truth;  and  the  pas- 
sionate love  thereof,  and  the  joy  of  its  possession, 
incite  to  lyric  ecstasies,  which  break  forth  of 
themselves  and  inevitably  into  lyric  numbers. 
These  duly  fashioned  by  wonted  technique  to  love- 
liness, capture  us  quite  apart  from  pedantical 
question  of  agreement  with  their  implicit  doctrine. 
So,  the  three  papers  discussing  the  religious 
burden  of  Schiller,  Goethe  and  Meredith  were 
written  very  much  in  the  same  spirit  as  most  of 
the  essays,  constituting  a  book  now  out  of  print, 
entitled:  ''Modern  Poet-Prophets",  which  met 
with  many  kind  welcomes  from  reviewers,  alike 
those  who  accepted  and  those  who  rejected  our 
presuppositions.  For  surely  it  must  be  of  no  in- 
considerable value  to  ascertain  exactly  what  the 
great  poets  thought,  as  poets,  of  the  soul,  of  im- 
mortality, of  righteousness,  of  God?  When  the 
great  poets  confront  for  themselves,  and  as  poets, 
the  religious,  ethical  and  aesthetical  ultimates,  and 
give  a  luminous  and  persuasive  account  of  what 
they  behold  and  believe,  their  \dsion  and  faiths 
have  at  least  the  authority  inherent  in  their  su- 
pra-normal sensibility,  their  richer  organic  re- 
sponse to  ideas,  their  conscious  need  for  truly 
adorable  ideals,  and  their  imaginative  ability  to 
juxtapose  all  values  for  a  relative  reappraise- 
ment.  What  a  poet,  as  a  poet,  thinks  and  sings  of 
the  soul,  of  immortality,  of  good,  and  of  God,  may 


FOREWORD  11 

not  perhaps  determine  his  distinctive  and  aesthetic 
contribution;  but  surely  it  must  greatly  qualify 
and  tend  to  define  his  relation  with  lettered  as 
well  as  unlettered  mankind.  A  Sophocles,  a  Dante, 
a  Milton,  an  Omar,  without  just  their  special  and 
admitted  attitudes  toward  things  human  and  di- 
vine, might  conceivably  be  as  great,  nay  greater, 
artists  in  verse,  and  in  their  several  poetic  genres; 
but  they  would  indubitably  make  quite  another 
and  very  likely  a  less  significant  and  perennial 
appeal. 

Such,  then,  is  the  only  needed  justification  for 
inquiries  of  this  kind;  and  one,  we  fancy,  which 
even  the  'Art-for-Art's-sake'  partisan  may  be  in- 
duced to  admit;  however  much  he  himself,  quite 
properly,  prefers  to  examine  and  commend  other 
aspects  of  poetic  performance. 

The  remaining  papers  in  this  compilation,  two 
on  Blake,  one  on  Whitman,  and  one  on  Maeterlinck 
and  Henry  ^lills  Alden  as  literary  mystics,  may 
vex  a  few  readers  who  are  moved  perhaps  to  ap- 
proval and  sympathy  by  the  earlier  portions  of 
our  volume.  Absurd  enough,  indeed,  seems  Em- 
erson's claim  for  Swedenborg,  when  he  set  him 
with  Homer,  Shakespeare,  Dante,  and  Goethe,  as 
a  poet,  on  the  vertiginous  summit  of  Parnassus. 
A  mystic,  who,  God-intoxicated,  sees  wondrous 
visions  but  cannot  indue  them  with  beautiful  form 
for  the  enraptured  eye  and  ear,  is  no  wise  a  poet, 
however  meritorious  a  teacher,  and  effective  a  re- 
ligious inspirer.    But  if  a  mystic  should  somehow. 


12  FOREWORD 

by  special  grace  divine,  compass  a  modicum  of 
Art,  he  is  likely  to  obtain  a  place  so  high  as  to 
dwell  far  above  the  perfect  technicians,  who  ut- 
ter no  paljDitating  words,  and  he  will  come  thus 
to  rank  only  a  little  lower  than  the  Archangels 
of  Sublimest  Art ;  in  some  instances,  winning  more 
ardent  devotion  than  his  poetic  betters  from  sucli 
as  intimately  know  and  esteem  his  work.  It  is 
strangely  interesting  to  note  how  from  anthology 
to  anthology  William  Blake  grows  in  representa- 
tion,— until  he,  knowoi  but  little  a  while  ago  only 
for  his  ''Tiger,  Tiger"  and  his  "Little  Lamb", 
is,  in  a  recent  one,  allowed  twice  as  many  poems 
as  Robert  Burns ! 

To  the  writer  of  these  papers,  however,  uncon- 
scious of  any  partiality  to  mysticism,  per  se, 
Blake  and  Goethe,  Whitman  and  Sophocles,  must 
approve  themselves  at  the  same  bar  of  criticism : — 
to  serve  man  best  as  Poets,  and  in  Blakean  phrase 
"the  best,  most", — being  the  assumed  safest 
token  of  abiding  greatness.  Blake,  with  the  Eos- 
settis,  Swinbourne,  Richard  Garnett,  ay,  and  Stop- 
ford  Brooke,  for  spon-sors,  has  surely  achieved  a 
place  of  his  own  among  our  lyrical  poets,  whatever 
Professor  Basil  de  Lelincourt,  as  devil's  advocate, 
may  academically  adduce  to  the  contrary.  Whit- 
man may  comport  himself  after  all  as  no  more 
than  an  ancestor;  but,  even  then,  he  would  be 
worthier  of  consideration  than  an  effete  scion  of 
ancient  lineage.  And  oh,  to  think  of  the  future 
society  of  Daughters  Pre-Adamite  and  Sons  of 


FOREWORD  13 

Calamus!  If  Whitman's  aesthetic  theories  be  er- 
roneous, so  were  assuredly  those  of  Wordsworth 
and  Browning.  Of  few  poets  can  more  than  a 
fractional  portion  of  their  entire  output  deserve 
to  be  called  poetry,  and  included  in  the  "World's 
Larger  Bible";  and  if  the  fraction  be  propor- 
tionately large,  then  the  total  published  j^roduct 
no  doubt  has  been  exceedingly  exiguous!  Let  of 
Whitman  much  or  little  be  reckoned  amiss,  and 
mercifully  dropped  in  the  poke  of  oblivion,  yet 
notwithstanding,  enough  will  remain  to  elicit  ad- 
miration and  give  delight,  whatever  else  may  hap- 
pen incidentally  to  our  hostile  canons  and  sorely 
perplexed  categories  of  literary  excellence. 

Not  flaunting  any  perverse  or  specious  hetero- 
doxy, nor  acknowledging  any  extravagant  cult, 
the  latter  papers  are  included  without  any  sense 
of  apologj^  due.  The  same  attitude  was  in  their 
instance  adopted,  as  in  those  on  Goethe  and  Schil- 
ler, universally  accepted  classics.  Always  th^ 
negative  had  the  burden  of  the  proof;  always  a 
personal  sympathy  was  granted  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt  in  controversy  with  temperamental  an- 
tipathy. If  Maeterlinck  should  seem  to  be  excep- 
tionally dealt  with,  the  comparison  was  not  insti- 
tuted to  extol  Mr.  Alden's  work  by  the  method  of 
unfair  contrast,  but  merely  to  call  attention  to  our 
current  misconceptions,  with  regard  to  the  philo- 
sophic and  religous  implications  of  the  famous 
Fleming's  plays  and  essays.  Many  have  beheld 
his  mysteries,  and,  duly  mystified,  have  ever  after- 


14  FOREWORD 

ward  adopted  a  tone  of  pious  hushed  awe  in  the 
discussion  of  the  same.  That  Maeterlinck  ex- 
ploits our  instinctive  respect  for  mysticism,  and 
our  religious  reverences  for  a  novel  shudder  or 
tremulous  revery;  that  he  obscures  and  confuses 
moral  values  in  his  predilection  for  silvery  twi- 
lights and  purple  gloamings  of  sensibility;  that 
his  transcendentalism  is  pessimistic,  rather  than, 
as  commonly  assumed,  an  elevation  quite  super- 
human, indicative  of  a  vital  need  to  pass  beyond 
the  seen  into  the  unseen;  so  much  could  be  more 
effectively  affirmed  by  comparison  with  the  atti- 
tude of  the  American's  work;  which,  if  it  be  held 
inferior  for  grace  and  magnetic  charm,  is  on  the 
other  hand,  most  evidently  symptomatic  of  a  much 
sounder  moral  and  spiritual  constitution. 

Such  are  the  three  parts  of  this  volume;  modest 
by-products  of  a  teacher's  and  lecturer's  activi- 
ties. Now,  to  whom  should  the  whole  be  fitly  dedi- 
cated, if  not  to  those  who  followed  the  lecturer 
from  year  to  year,  or  who  were  his  fellow  students 
in  the  classroom?  To  them,  therefore,  in  grati- 
tude, the  fate  of  this  publication  is  committed, 
without  begging  of  favor,  or  contrite  fears  of  ill- 
desert.  And  to  them  left  nameless,  for  various 
■  and  manifest  reasons,  herewith  be  the  volume  in- 
scribed. 

William  Norman  Guthrie. 

Sewanee,  Tennessee,  July,  1911. 


THE  VITAL  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE. 


I. 

Self-complacent  illiteracy  in  educated  adults 
is  supposed  to  be  an  incurable  disease.  '*I  don't 
like  poetry,"  the  sagacious  man  will  tell  you,  is 
quite  as  final  a  verdict  as  *'I  don't  like  young 
onions."  To  be  sure,  it  is  useless  to  argue  about 
tastes.  Yet  one  may  appeal  from  Philip  drunk  to 
Philip  sober.  If  your  arrogant  damner  of  art 
can  be  brought  to  realize  that  his  anathemas  hurt 
none  but  himself,  he  may  try  what  a  few  beati- 
tudes, devoutly  uttered,  might  do  to  improve  the 
situation.  If  he  comes  back  with  a  disagreeable 
impression  from  the  paradise  of  so  many  gi-eat 
souls,  whom  he  hypocritically  admits  to  be  greater 
than  himself,  may  it  not  be  the  bad  company  he 
has  traveled  with?  or  his  absent-minded  absorp- 
tion, or  his  undue  haste,  that  are  to  blame?  or 
perchance  the  green  goggles  he  habitually  wore 
to  prevent  his  seeing  things  rose-colored,  like 
happy  young  folk?  or  perhaps  that  he  never  \ds- 
ited  the  country  at  all,  and  wrongs  his  own  judg- 
ment and  healthy  power  of  perception  by  the 
promulgation  of  hearsay? 

How  many  an  adult  of  literary  disposition  and 
inborn  aptitude  for  appreciating  the  noblest  works 
of  poetic  art  will  admit  that  he  never,  since  he 

15 


16  THE  VITAL  STUDY 

left  school,  read  any  work  on  English  literature 
but  Taine's  ''History"  in  Van  Laun's  transla- 
tion! And  what  other  handbook  should  he  have 
read?  If  he  picked  up  any  by  the  pedagogues  and 
critics  of  international  repute,  an  intuition,  self- 
preservative  and  tyrannous,  made  him  quickly 
lay  it  down.  And  well  for  him,  doubtless,  that  he 
obeyed.  It  might  have  extinguished  what  flame  of 
aesthetic  fire  did  vet  flicker  in  his  secret  soul. 

The  truth  about  the  matter  is,  literature  cannot 
be  directly  taught.  It  is  not  a  science.  Nor  is  it, 
so  far  as  academic  instruction  goes,  an  art.  Lit- 
erature is  a  collective  name  for  masterpieces  of 
literary  art.  The  art  might  and  doubtless  should 
be  taught  creatively  as  are  other  arts,  not  to 
increase  the  quantity  of  production — but  secure 
a  proper  diffusion  of  humility,  and  teach  genius 
to  put  up  long  at  a  certain  inn — whose  swinging 
sign  is  a  poke  or  waste  basket  of  vast  pro- 
portions. But,  for  the  unprofessional,  master- 
pieces of  literary  art  should  be  objects  of  enjoy- 
ment, rather  than  of  study.  The  teaching  required 
is  a  personal  preparation  for  enjoyment.  The 
understanding  of  a  poem,  as  a  piece  of  writing, 
versifying,  thinking,  feeling,  is  not  identical  with 
the  enjoyment  of  it;  and  its  raison  d'  etre  is  not 
the  former  but  the  latter.  The  latter  does  imply 
the  former ;  and  yet  is  it  not  true  that  the  former 
(the  understanding)  is  not  to  be  got  so  much  from 
a  vivisection  of  the  poem  (sure  to  become  an 
autopsy  before  the  student  knows  it),  as  from  the 


OF  LITERATURE  17 

proper  education  of  the  student  in  certain  ele- 
mentary arts  and  sciences,  or  even  more  probably 
by  his  lessons  in  life's  school  of  experience?  For 
one  who  gets  a  love  of  Milton's  epic  from  parsing 
a  speech  of  Satan,  or  the  old-fashioned,  primitive 
memorizations,  there  are  thousands  who  ever  after 
secretly  congratulate  themselves  that  they  do  not 
write  like  Milton.  Fortunately  for  them,  his  fame 
is  such  that  they  may  safely  neglect  to  read  his 
works.  Dore  will  suffice — and  the  school  memo- 
ries of  syntactic  involution!  Besides,  well-bred 
people  never  discuss  the  classics — only  writings 
warranted  ephemeral  and  interesting! 

It  is  not  that  adults  lack  time,  ''habits  of 
study,"  or  capacity  for  continuous  attention,  for 
self-compulsion.  No.  They  cheerfully  labor  at 
their  callings  in  and  out  of  season.  They  will 
acquire  a  science  or  an  art  as  a  personal  accom- 
plishment. But  then  some  definite  use  is  in  view: 
an  increase  of  power,  a  display  of  personal  excel- 
lence. Now,  why  then  is  literature  so  rarely  the  di- 
version of  the  busy  man's  leisure  hours — his 
opiate,  his  stimulant,  his  food  of  the  spirit?  Those 
of  us  who  know  what  literature  has  been  to  leaders 
of  men  in  the  past ;  how,  directly  or  indirectly,  from 
it,  the  preserver  and  transmitter  of  our  racial 
achievement,  all  of  character  almost  and  conduct  do 
as  a  matter  of  fact  ultimately  derive ;  those  of  us 
who  have,  not  just  professionally  as  teachers, 
critics,  litterateurs,  but  personally  as  men  and 
women,  drunk  freely  of  those  waters  of  life,  and 


18  THE  VITAL  STUDY 

been  refreshed,  intoxicated — nay,  renewed — as 
though,  indeed,  they  were  love-philters  drawn  from 
the  fount  of  eternal  youth; — how  can  we  help  la- 
menting that  so  many  about  us  refuse  to  drink 
with  us  to  their  health  and  our  happiness  of  this 
well  at  the  world's  end  and  the  soul's  new  begin- 
ning? 

How  can  we  not  wish  to  do  something  to  cure 
their  self-complacent,  willful  illiteracy  ?  And  who 
is  to  blame  for  the  disease,  if  such  it  be!  AVho,  if 
not  the  teacher,  the  critic,  the  litterateur!  Their 
sins  of  commission  and  their  sins  of  omission  are 
indeed  grievous.  What  was  done  at  school  for  the 
adult  of  to-day!  "What  were  his  text-books!  Is 
their  memory  fragrant!  And  since  he  has  been 
out  of  school,  what  book  about  English  literature 
has  been  put  into  his  hands  which,  vitally  inter- 
esting in  its  conception  and  execution,  showed  to 
him  the  value  of  its  subject ;  made  him  realize  his 
need  of  acquaintance  with  the  best  that  has  been 
written!  Ah!  the  truth  is,  it  is  just  here  that  he 
has  been  irritated.  The  best!  Who  was  to  decide 
about  that!  Dead  men,  or  men  as  good  as  dead, 
or  himself!  And  so  he  concluded,  that  because 
he  could  not  accept  traditional  estimates,  he  was 
a  peculiar  man, — probably  blessedly  so ;  one,  at  all 
events,  that  didn't  care  for  poetry  except,  per- 
haps, the  "Psalm  of  Life,"  and  of  course  Shakes- 
peare— in  unverified  theory. 

Literature  is  for  life,  not  life  for  literature. 
This  any  man  is  quite  clear  about  who  hasn't  a 


OF  LITERATURE  19 

professorial  chair  in  a  classic  hall.  I  have  to  live 
— earn  my  living,  fulfill  my  human  obligations, 
and  enjoy  myself.  If  you  can  show  me  that  the 
study  requisite  for  the  enjoyment  of  literature 
will  help  me  to  enjoy  myself,  to  make  myself  en- 
joyable; that  literature  is  capable  of  liberating 
new  energies  in  me,  communicating  to  me  an  else 
impossible  ecstasy;  fit  me,  indeed,  for  greater 
efficiency  as  son,  lover,  husband,  father — nay,  as 
laborer,  journeyman,  manufacturer,  citizen, — be- 
cause quickening  me  as  man  in  hitherto  undreamed 
of  ways ;  then  it  is  quite  probable  that  I  shall  make 
some  effort  to  verify  my  dogma  (that  I  do  not 
like  poetry),  and  see  whether  perhaps  I  am  not 
mistaken  after  all.  But  be  it  understood,  I  must 
be  shown  all  this,  not  told  about  it.  I  must  be  given 
at  least  a  vicarious  experience  for  provisional 
faith,  till  right  Imowledge  can  be  got  for  myself 
with  the  personal  experience  of  what  literature, 
with  proper  self-preparation,  can  do  for  me.  Most 
likely  I  read  little  else  than  the  newspaper,  or  the 
cheap  magazine  made  up  in  large  part  of  illustra- 
tions ;  occasionally  a  novel  that  is  forced  upon  me 
by  the  clamors  of  my  friends  and  neighbors,  and 
more  in  self-defense  than  out  of  curiosity,  be  it 
confessed.  At  school,  at  college,  I  never  really 
received  pleasure  from  any  literature.  I  heard  a 
great  deal  of  praise  of  what  I  did  not  like.  It  has, 
however,  occurred  to  me  that  with  the  advent  of 
maturer  years  I  might  perhaps  lie  able  to  agree 
with  some  of  those  then  apparently  quite  extrava- 


20  THE  VITAL  STUDY 

gant  estimates.  Masterpieces,  naturally  enougli, 
make  demands  of  me  proportional  to  their  great- 
ness. I  am  prepared  for  that.  Nothing  worth 
having  is  got  without  effort.  You  can't  climb  a 
mountain  as  easily  as  you  can  fall  to  the  earth 
from  a  balloon.  AVhat  is  the  line  of  least  resist- 
ance for  me,  the  easiest  and  quickest  ascent?  I 
want  a  guidebook;  not  an  omniscient  "Murray," 
but  a  plain,  practical  ''Baedecker."  Yes,  but  then 
my  mind  is  not  wholly  made  up.  The  "Bae- 
decker"  is  dry  reading.  Besides,  I  can't  make 
my  own  itinerary,  and  who  is  going  to  be  my 
''Cook?" 

II. 

Well,  there  are  books  of  travel,  the  experiences 
and  opinions  of  men  who  have  seen  for  them- 
selves. Ah,  yes,  the  essayists !  Of  course,  if  they 
do  not  merely  repeat  the  traditions  of  the  elders, 
their  authority  is  that  of  private  judgment.  If 
only  they  are  honest  with  me,  however,  and  allow 
me  to  understand  what  manner  of  men  they  them- 
selves are,  I  can  make  needful  allowance  for  dif- 
ference in  point  of  view.  But  the  "ipse  dixit"  of 
an  Arnold  is  not  likely  to  satisfy  me.  The  meth- 
ods of  the  wine  taster  applied  to  landscape  or 
poetry  are  likely  to  arouse  good-humored  mirth 
at  a  critic's  expense,  even  if  he  be  in  his  own  right 
a  poet  of  distinction.  "Is  Niagara  great?  Call 
to  mind  that  sunrise  you  saw  in  the  Alps.  Do 
they  affect  you  similarly?    If  so,  Niagara,  though 


6P  LITERATURE  21 

So  recent  an  addition  to  the  list  of  nature's  won- 
ders, is  classic!"  Besides,  I  cannot,  as  a  man  of 
the  world,  help  calling  into  question  a  man's 
loves.  There  is  the  craze  and  the  fad.  Men  want 
a  thing  not  because  it  is  good  (though  it  may  be 
so),  but  for  the  reason  that  others  want  it;  such 
are  the  sheep.  Or  men  want  a  thing  to  be  singu- 
lar, just  because  others  don't  want  it;  such  are 
the  goats.  So  I,  who  have  a  partiality  for  neither 
sheep  nor  goats ;  who  am  a  man,  or  try  to  be  one, 
and  pity  the  sheepish  craze,  and  despise  the  capri- 
cious fad,  cannot  help  being  doubtful  of  literary 
exhorters,  special  pleaders,  apologetes,  even  when 
I  am  confident  they  are  not  mere  exploiters  of 
good  subjects.  True  enough  that  whatever  a  liv- 
ing man  praises  must  have  contributed  something 
to  his  life,  but  does  he  give  me  a  fair  account  of 
the  ''good  it  has  done  him"  to  adopt  Matthew 
Arnold's  witticism?  At  all  events,  because  the 
essayist  had  a  confined  subject,  I  have  little 
chance  for  ascertaining  how  much  of  craze  or  fad 
there  is  involved  in  his  estimate. 

As  for  a  man's  hates,  they  are  of  course  far  less 
reliable  than  his  loves.  What  he  loves  he  may  be 
quite  right  about,  as  nine  times  out  of  ten  he  is; 
what  he  hates  he  is  sure  to  be  wrong  in,  ten  times 
out  of  nine.  There  is  ignorance,  prejudice,  mis- 
taken theory  of  its  object's  inconsistency  with 
what  he  loves,  incompatibility  of  temper,  tempera- 
mental incapacity;  yes,  there  is  so  much  that  will 
account  for  the  hatred  more  easily  than  the  vice 


22  THE  VITAL  STUDY 

or  defect  of  the  hated,  that,  as  a  man  of  the  world, 
I  pay  little  heed  to  polemics,  diatribe,  denuncia- 
tion. Let  Swinburne  talk  of  Byron's  "dirty, 
draggle-tail  drab  of  a  muse,"  and  I  will  laugh  at 
Swinburne,  even  though  I  should  never  read  my 
Byron. 

I  turn  again  to  the  "manuals  of  literature." 
They  will  give  me  Pisgah-sights  of  the  promised 
land.  Alas!  these  handbooks  turn  out  upon  in- 
spection to  be  not  manuals  of  literature  at  all, 
though  in  their  way  erudite  and  meritorious. 
(1)  They  are  histories  of  literary  production, 
rather  than  histories  of  literature.  They  show 
how  certain  times  were  marked  by  the  making  of 
certain  sorts  of  works  in  prose  or  verse.  They 
show  how  the  intellectual  history  of  the  nation 
can  be  learned  by  a  careful  scrutiny  of  these 
works  in  chronological  order.  (2)  Or  our  hand- 
books are  biographical  dictionaries  of  authors 
arranged  in  order  of  birth.  I  am  shown  how  the 
men,  being  what  they  were  (literary  gossip),  wrote 
certain  works  (symptoms) ;  or  vice  versa,  gossip 
was  wrong;  by  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them, 
the  knowledge  of  the  dead  wood  being  the  reason 
for  tasting  the  preserved  fruit,  rather  than  appe- 
tite or  gormandise.  (3)  Or  our  handbooks  are 
scrupulous  studies  of  the  development  of  literary 
forms — how,  for  instance,  the  drama  came  to  be 
what  it  was  in  Shakespeare's  hands,  and  there- 
fore how  it  can  or  can't  become  this  or  that  in  the 
future;  as  though  we  should  study  the  bottles, 


OF  LITERATURE  23 

their  origin  and  destiny,  rather  than  drink  the 
good  wines  contained.  (4)  Or  our  handbooks  are 
attempts  to  show  by  structural  and  stylistic  criti- 
cism that  there  never  really  were  any  literary 
masterpieces;  that  men  of  genius  are,  however, 
alive  to-day  who  doubtless  could  (and  would  but 
for  lack  of  time  and  inclination)  create  substi- 
tutes for  the  much  discredited  classics! 

More  probably  our  handbooks  are  all  of  these 
things  at  once.  Better,  surely,  for  my  purposes 
(poor  academic  outcast  that  I  am)  would  have 
been  the  old-fashioned  cemetery,  where  the  epi- 
taphs on  dead  authors'  monuments  were  strictly 
anonjTiious,  and  a  glimpse  of  the  dry  bones  (called 
''beauties")  given  through  a  becoming  crack  in 
each  tomb.  At  least,  such  manuals  suggested 
wholesome  meditations  on  the  vanity  of  fame  and 
modern  progress  in  the  embalmer's  art. 

The  truth  is,  I,  the  unpedantical  ordinary  man, 
want  vital  criticism  based  on  principles  for  which 
the  justification  is  in  me.  It  is  I,  the  consumer, 
that  am  to  be  considered,  not  the  jDroducer.  It  is 
not  Milton's  fame  that  is  to  be  fostered,  but  my 
life  that  is  to  be  made  more  abundant.  What  can 
I  (not  you,  0  pedant,  0  pensioner  of  the  Muses, 
but  I)  get  from  such  and  such  masterpieces? 
That  is  the  question  I  want  answered.  ^Yliat  are 
they  really  about,  those  masterpieces  you  are  i:)aid 
to  commend  and  bewilderingly  annote?  What  do 
I  need  to  know,  in  what  mood  must  I  be,  to  enjoy 
them  by  myself,  without  your  intruded  company? 


U  THE  VITAL  STUDY 

Quick,  wliat  attitude  must  I  take  toward  themf 
for  if  I  expect  a  funeral  oration,  a  jest  will  affect 
me  as  unseemly.  Don't  tell  me  what  tliose  mas- 
terpieces are  not,  but  wliat  they  are.  Please  don't 
compile  a  list  of  works  I  needn't  read,  telling  me 
why  I  needn't  or  oughtn't  to;  but  furnish  me  a 
descriptive  catalogue  of  works  which,  if  I  love  my 
soul,  I  must  read.  Which  will  be  likely  to  liberate 
energy?  which  to  produce  ecstasy?  Which  will 
conduct  my  passions  innocuously  out  of  reality 
into  the  safe  world  of  day-dream  and  vision? 
which  excite  me,  save  me  from  lethargy,  paraly- 
sis, coma  ?  Which  will  produce  that  quiet  felicity, 
that  reasonless  jubilation  for  which  there  are  no 
words?  that  panic  at  the  presence  of  the  divine? 
Ah!  and  while  you  do  all  this,  dear  mentor,  or 
part  of  this,  for  me — making  allowance  for  varie- 
ties of  temperament,  for  difference  of  age,  pre- 
scribing the  favorable  conditions — I  absolutely 
insist  on  being  entertained.  My  informer,  to  be 
trustworthy  when  his  report  is  "of  beauty,"  must 
make  me  believe  he  has  blood  in  his  veins  like 
myself,  not  ink  or  midnight  oil;  solid  flesh  under 
sensitive  skin,  not  paper  pulp  bound  in  cloth,  calf, 
sheep,  or  morocco.  In  plain  words,  he  must  know 
whereof  he  speaks,  and  love  it  with  the  love  that 
passes  knowledge ;  know  me  and  love  me,  who  am 
to  listen  with  a  passion  appropriate  to  my  righte- 
ous self-love;  know  how  to  speak,  and  love  to 
speak.  If  not,  pray  let  him  be  silent.  He  is  a 
thief,  with  designs  on  my  pocketbook,  and  I  should 
be  foolish  indeed  were  I  to  lend  him  mine  ears. 


OF  LITERATURE  S5 

As  for  the  principles  governing  the  selection  of 
suhjects  for  presentation  and  judicious  yet  en- 
thusiastic praise,  shall  they  be  esoteric,  the  secrets 
of  academic  hierophants;  shall  they  be  always 
substantiated  only  by  references  to  the  ''lost 
VedasT'  Must  they  not,  if  they  are  to  win  my 
provisional  confidence,  be  such  as  I  can  verify  in 
myself  and  my  common  world  of  men?  principles 
of  large  application,  axiomatic,  or  at  least  corol- 
laries to  theorems  which,  upon  some  reflection, 
common  sense  adorns  with  a  cheerful  Q.  E.  D.? 
For  whether  literature  be  or  be  not  the  criticism 
of  life,  life  most  assuredly  is  and  must  be  the 
criticism  of  literature.  I  will  not  live  in  a  tomb, 
not  even  a  Pharaoh's  of  the  most  famous  dynasty, 
though  a  pyramid  commanding  the  attention  of 
the  entire  tourist  world.  I  prefer  my  hovel  of 
mud-plastered  logs,  my  children  about  my  knees, 
and  my  wife  laughing  at  their  nonsensical  prat- 
tle and  mischievous  i)ranks.  It  is  in  my  living 
human  nature  and  that  of  my  fellows  that  the 
data  for  the  critic's  judgments  must  be  found,  if 
I  am  to  lend  them  provisional  credence.  Only 
such  a  handbook  as  does  this,  and  declares  itself 
frankly,  can  help  me  to  recant  manfully,  and 
admit  that  under  certain  conditions  I  do  love, 
should,  could,  or  at  least  would  love  poetry  if  I 
could. 

But  what  are,  in  the  opinion  of  the  writer  of 
this  paper,  these  principles,  and  where  are  they  to 
be  studied?     Manifestly  at   the  book  shop,  the 


26  THE  VITAL  STUDY 

news  stand,  the  office  of  tlie  public  library.  Ob- 
serve how  mankind  selects  among  books  of  con- 
temporary authorship,  for  which  no  ancient  fame 
imposes  artificial  reverence.  Every  one  has  no- 
ticed that  the  book  of  which  but  a  few  years  ago, 
joerhaps,  several  hundred  thousand  copies  were 
sold  is  never  to-day  in  demand.  No  one  speaks  of 
it;  no  one  insists  that  you  7mist  read  it.  Every- 
body seems  to  have  forgotten  that  it  was  once  on 
every  table,  in  every  mouth.  How  is  this?  My 
bookseller  tells  me  that  more  recent  books  have 
taken  the  popular  fancy.  So  I  discover  at  once 
the  law  of  death.  Other  things  being  equal,  the 
newest  novel  is  the  best.  Old  books  are  good  not 
because  of  their  age,  but  in  spite  of  it.  Their 
survival  is  a  proof  that  new  books  are  not  their 
equals  in  some  important  res^Dects ;  for  only  if  the 
old  gives  what  the  new  cannot  supply  does  it  con- 
tinue to  find  readers.  The  greater  the  output  of 
novels  the  higher  the  mortality  rate.  A  work  of 
fiction  which  in  these  days  of  excessive  produc- 
tion and  publication  retains  a  respectable  body  of 
readers  is  not  without  singular  merit  of  some 
sort.  Now,  I,  the  common  man,  begin  to  under- 
stand why  the  classics  are  prohahly  great.  If 
they  are  not  now  mere  fossils  stored  in  glass 
cases  of  scholarly  museums,  if  they  are  really  liv- 
ing creatures  still,  great  and  wonderful  must  be, 
indeed,  in  them  the  spirit  of  life. 

But  what  is  it  that   causes  certain  books   to 
retain  attention  even  when  novelty  is  worn  off? 


OF  LITERATURE  27 

Why  can  they  successfully  compete  with  each 
annual  generation  hegotten  and  born  and  reared 
to  commercial  importance  expressly  for  the  lucra- 
tive diversion  of  the  injudicious  public?  Why  is 
it  that  as  a  rule  the  public  preserves  just  those 
books  that  were  not  written  for  its  sake?  Is  it 
that,  after  all,  the  i:>ublic  is  deeper,  truer,  sincerer 
than  it  seems?  that  what  is  not  deep,  true,  and 
sincere  in  it  is  essentially  capricious?  that  what 
therefore  only  satisfies  the  peculiar  cra\dng  of 
to-day  cloys,  palls — nay,  nauseates — on  the  mor- 
row? And  that  some  of  the  books,  written  from  a 
necessity  to  write,  may  have  come  from  the  deep, 
true,  and  sincere  in  their  authors,  and  therefore 
appeal  to  what  is  permanent  in  man,  and  obtain — 
not  the  loud  hysterical  applause, — but  the  praise 
of  the  still  small  voice  which  speaks  in  divers 
accents,  but  always  to  the  same  jDurpose: — the 
best  good  of  what  is  best  in  man? 

III. 

The  fact,  then,  seems  to  be  that  a  novel  (taking 
the  most  alive  of  literary  species  as  our  instance) 
subserves  confessedly  many  uses  as  an  article  of 
commerce  quite  distinct  from  its  value  as  a  work 
of  art.  It  is  a  patch  of  color  on  the  shelf  or  table ; 
a  paper-weight  for  perfumed  billet-doux;  if  not 
too  heavy,  something  to  hold  in  the  hand  in  lieu  of 
a  fan;  a  symbol  of  leisure  and  gilded  ennui;  an 
excuse  for  a  bookplate  and  the  display  of  a  pur- 
chased coat  of  aims ;  an  economical  holiday  gift ; 


28  THE  VITAL  STUDY 

a  subject  for  cultured  chitchat;  an  occasion  for 
the  display  of  the  nil-admirari  spirit;  something 
to  reconunend,  like  a  favorite  drug  to  an  acquaint- 
ance as  inexpensive  proof  of  sincere  good  will; 
a  means  of  enforcing  Shakespeare's  maxim, 
''Never  a  lender,  but  a  borrower  be!"  These 
uses  (and  we  are  too  civilized,  urbane  and  genial 
to  deny  their  importance)  are  not  assuredly  liter- 
ary uses  of  books.  They  may  increase  the  de- 
mand for  the  publisher's  wares — nay,  affect  the 
supply  thereof — but  they  have  little  to  do  with 
the  law  of  selection,  perpetually  at  work,  the  law 
of  death.  The  illiterate  often  fancy  that  only  de- 
funct books  are  called  classics,  as  for  many  and 
sufficient  reasons  only  the  safely  departed  are 
canonized.  But  the  truth  is  that  only  living  books 
desei-ve  and  usually  obtain  the  coveted  designa- 
tion, as  only  those  men  who  live  in  the  hearts  of 
mankind  as  an  inspiration  are  the  saints  to  whom 
churches  are  dedicated  and  for  whom  asylums  and 
hospitals  are  named.  But  why,  then,  does  the 
novel  fresh  from  the  press  often  obtain  a  reading 
in  preference  to  the  tried  and  tested  predecessor? 
Is  it  that,  like  Emerson,  we  are  always  on  the 
lookout  for  a  gi'eat  man,  and  suspect  that  some 
hero's  heart  is  beating  under  every  little  boy's 
tight-buttoned  waistcoat f  I  think  not.  Eather  is 
it  to  satisfy  our  curiosity,  and  give  us  a  calmly 
joyful  sense  of  being  up  to  date.  Xow  note  that 
a  book  cannot  under  any  circumstances  do  this 
more  often  than  once  in  one  season.    If  a  book 


OF  LITERATURE  29 

does  this  and  this  only,  or  nothing  else  peculiarly- 
well,  it  is  promptly  consigned  to  oblivion.  And 
that,  thank  heaven,  is  the  death  warrant  of  most 
publications. 

But  a  book  gives  me  something  besides.  I  expe- 
rience as  I  toboggan  down  its  steeps  a  delicious 
excitement,  a  thrill,  a  quite  extraordinary  experi- 
ence. In  daily  life  I  know  always  what  to  expect. 
I  am  therefore  thankful  for  the  suspense,  the 
agony,  the  surprise.  Besides,  the  dime  museum 
of  monstrosities  gives  me  as  an  after  effect  a  pro- 
found satisfaction  with  myself  the  normal  man, 
leading  a  normal  life,  in  which  premises  lead  to 
conclusion,  causes  imply  consequences,  on  a  planet 
where  no  ironic  or  freakish  fate  pulls" the  wires 
for  the  production  of  too  ingenious  coincidences. 
If  a  book,  however,  does  this  and  this  only,  or 
nothing  else  peculiarly  well,  it  will  be  soon  super- 
seded, because  a  sensation  is  relatively  easy  to 
produce,  and  there  are  many  who  wield  the  pen 
for  a  livelihood  not  without  skill  or  courage. 

Furthermore,  perhaps  a  book  mirrors  some 
phase  of  me  to  myself — exactly  my  present 
thoughts,  my  present  feelings.  Ila,  go  to,  I,  even 
I,  am  in  print !  Eeally,  then,  I  must  be  of  public 
interest.  My  vanity  is  nourished  with  lickerish 
tidbits.  But  alas  for  this  sycophant  of  a  book,  I 
am  fickle!  Just  because  it  flatters  me  to-day,  it 
will  soem  tedious,  superficial,  insipid  next  year. 
Unless  I  have  ceased  to  grow,  I  shall  soon  have 
found  its  gannent  of  praise  a  shameful  misfit. 


30  THE  VITAL  STUDY 

If,  then,  a  book  reflects  the  features  of  my  opinion, 
the  complexion  of  my  mood,  and  has  won  favor  on 
that  sole  account,  doing  me  no  nobler  service,  its 
author  may  charge  me  with  ingratitude;  j'et  I 
shall  soon  hold  his  work  in  derision,  or  smile  in- 
dulgently at  best  on  its  disappointed  pretenses  to 
further  consideration. 

But  maybe  the  book  in  question  does  more  than 
this:  it  champions  some  cause  to  which  I  am 
wedded,  and  I  love  him  for  my  bride's  sake.  It 
promotes  my  vested  interests  and  has  a  clear  title 
to  a  commission.  It  inculcates  my  dogma  of  social 
salvation  as  an  active  proselyter,  subtly  didactic, 
persuasive,  an  incarnate  homily;  and  I  disburse 
the  price  of  the  book  as  gladly  as  I  contribute  to 
the  support  of  foreign  missionaries,  or  pay  my 
assessment  toward  a  political  campaign  fund. 
But  note:  Many  will  find  themselves  called  to 
preach  lucratively,  and  the  talent  required  for 
respectable  success  as  pedagogue  or  advocate  is 
by  no  means  uncommon.  The  very  fact  that  I 
purchase  this  book,  recommend  it  to  my  friends — 
nay,  present  an  entire  edition  of  it  to  such  as  are 
likely  converts,  and  such  things  have  happened  in 
the  memory  of  living  man — ay,  this  very  consid- 
eration will  make  it  worth  somebody's  while  to 
supersede  my  skilful  and  valiant  defender  and 
spreader  of  the  faith  with  a  more  up-to-date 
knight  of  the  moon. 

Finally  a  book  does  all  or  none  of  the  above 
adventitious    delightsome    things,    but    inexpen- 


OF  LITERATURE  31 

sively  equips  me  with  a  convenient  gallery  of 
caricatures.  All  the  people  I  meet  are  there.  It 
furnishes  me  whimsical  names  wherewith  I  may 
designate  them  behind  their  backs.  My  vocabu- 
lary of  urbane  abuse  is  appreciably  enlarged.  In 
other  words,  my  gossip-passion  is  gratified — it 
leads  me  to  believe  that  I  know  my  neighbor  so 
much  better  than  he  knows  me.  If  a  book  does 
this  and  this  only,  and  nothing  else  peculiarly 
well,  it  may  live  for  a  time.  The  cartoonist,  how- 
ever, is  born  anew  in  every  generation.  Surely  I 
shall  find  my  children  preferring  another  book, 
and  only  yawning  respectfully  when  I  expatiate 
on  its  truth,  its  humor,  its  wit,  its  wisdom.  Gos- 
sip stales.  The  affectations  and  mannerisms  of 
one  age  are  unfortunately  not  those  of  another. 
Our  own  seem  charming,  or  at  all  events  excusable, 
but  who  will  condone  those  of  other  times?  Local 
color,  so  called,  has  its  dangers.  It  may  be  too 
local.  Besides,  it  will  not  be  gossip  any  more 
when  the  folk  of  whom  it  tells  too  distinctly  are 
dead!  Unless,  therefore,  these  likenesses  have 
independent  value  as  portraits,  who  will  admit 
them  to  his  gallery,  even  should  it  be  explained  to 
him  that  they  were  sat  for  by  the  eminent  mater- 
nal great  uncle,  or  the  ladylike  paternal  great 
aunt  of  his  whilom  next-door  neighbor? 

Now  who  is  so  bold  or  so  ignorant  as  to  deny 
that  a  large  share  in  the  "success"  of  any  novel 
is  due  to  novelty,  surprise,  flattery,  doctrinal  mes- 
sage, and  hitting  off  people?    Yet  surely  these 


32  THE  VITAL  STUDY 

attributes  and  powers  altogether  never  secured 
longevity  for  a  book,  and  certainly  not  what  is 
facetiously  termed  immortality.  In  judging  ol 
literature  my  desired  handbook  must,  therefore, 
be  careful  to  exclude  all  books  contemporary  or 
of  the  past,  wdiicli  have  no  better  claims  to  consid- 
eration. 

But  how  shall  we  arrive  at  some  positive  prin- 
ciples of  selection!  Examine  the  works  that  have 
lived  and  compare  them  with  works,  contempor- 
ary to  them,  that  have  perished  1  Yes.  Of  course. 
What  else  would  you  do?  Verify,  however,  your 
conclusions  by  the  psychology  of  readers — read- 
ers fcr  pleasure,  aesthetic  and  vital  profit — your- 
self if  you  choose,  the  victim  of  your  vivisections ; 
but  let  it  be  yourself  as  private  reader,  not  as  pro- 
fessional assenter  or  dissenter,  as  rattler  of  dead 
bones,  collector  of  curios,  or  as  intellectual  pres- 
tidigitator and  moral  contortionist.  If  the  exami- 
nation is  made  patiently,  without  prejudice,  fear, 
or  favor,  something  like  the  following  principles 
will  be  finally  set  forth  as  a  critical  working 
hypothesis. 

IV. 

Well,  then  let  us  boldly  italicize  and  itemize: 
Characteristics  Promoting  Literary  Longevity. — 
First,  the  stuff  (subject,  idea)  must  be  thoroughly 
mastered,  understood,  grasped.  If  not,  every  Sat- 
urn breeds  his  Jove.  The  work  advertises  the 
stuff,  subject,  and  idea,  and  ere  long  it  will  find 


OF  LITERATURE  33 

another  .student  wlio  can  present  his  truer  view 
as  attractively. 

Secondly,  the  composition  of  the  elements  or 
parts  of  the  stuff  (subject  or  idea)  must  be  signifi- 
cant, interesting,  lovely,  beautiful,  or  sublime. 
Such  a  juxtaposition  of  elements  must  be  devised, 
such  a  combination  of  foreground  and  back- 
ground, such  a  fusion  of  various  interests  ef- 
fected, that  the  whole  shall  satisfy,  give  delight, 
haunt  the  memory,  require  fresh  vision  from  time 
to  time. 

These  two  attributes  of  a  literaiy  work  (mas- 
tery of  the  stuff,  and  proper  composition)  are 
prior  to  the  actual  writing — belong  to  the  mental 
and  passional,  not  to  the  verbal  poem,  drama, 
novel,  essay. 

Thirdly,  the  construction  of  the  written  work, 
its  plan,  plot,  argument,  scheme,  must  be  such 
that,  however  complex,  it  shows  certain  grand 
simple  lines  which  secure  a  sense  of  unity  for  it, 
a  pleasure  to  the  reader  in  its  retrospective  con- 
templation as  a  whole.  The  interest  must  be  con- 
tinuous, not  diverted  or  dispersed.  The  center  of 
gravity  must  be  safely  within  the  base  of  the 
structure.  And  this,  because  it  will  thus  be  best 
remembered  when  its  details  are  forgotten.  It 
will  hold  its  own  in  memory,  bo  cherished  so, 
spoken  of,  and  purposively  recalled.  Perfect 
construction  would  imply  that  every  character, 
incident,  descriptive  touch,  digression  of  senti- 
ment or  passion,  should  be  directly  contributory 


34  THE  VITAL  STUDY 

to  the  idea,  plan,  plot,  argument,  or  scheme  of  the 
whole. 

Fourthly,  the  style  of  the  book,  that  is  to  live 
long,  must  be  such  as  yields  a  characteristic  de- 
light. ]Mere  transparency  is  no  merit,  nor  opaque- 
ness for  the  matter  of  that,  either.  Individuality, 
appropriateness  to  subject,  mood,  structure  of  the 
work,  charms  not  exhausted  at  the  first  perusal, 
reserve  force,  riches  stowed  underground  to  reward 
delving,  violets  under  wayside  hedges  to  which 
vague  fragrance  draws  the  leisurely  passer-by; 
all  significant  of  lavish  love,  of  exuberant  creative 
energy.  For  such  style  contributes  to  survival 
because  it  tantalizes  in  memory,  cries  for  a  re- 
reading and  obtains  it  sooner  or  later.  Strange 
how  Carlyle's  idiosyncratic  dialect  adds  to  the 
greatness  of  "Sartor  Eesartus"  and  detracts 
from  his  history  of  the  French  Revolution!  Yet, 
not  strange.  In  the  first  case  the  style  suits  the 
theme;  in  the  second  case  we  are  not  so  sure  that 
it  does. 

The  works  of  literary  art  that  have  come  down 
to  us  with  the  greatest  fame  possess  these  four 
characteristics  all  in  some  degree,  or  if  some  one 
is  conspicuously  absent  then  the  ''lack"  is  made 
up  for  by  ''luck,"  and  the  others  are  conspicu- 
ously present.  Yet  these  four  principles  will  not 
be  found  altogether  sufficient  to  explain  the  selec- 
tion that  has  actually  taken  place  in  the  past,  or  to 
serve  as  a  safe  and  sane  criterion  of  contemporary 
literature. 


OF  LITERATURE  35 

Fifthly,  then  we  must  make  mention  of  the  fact 
that  (deplorable  to  some)  in  the  progress  of  man- 
kind certain  moral  changes  do  take  place.  What 
was  once  foible  is  now  vice.  To  give  direct  of- 
fense to  me  morally  is  to  render  me  in  that  degree 
aesthetically  insensible.  Pain  neutralizes  pleasure. 
Or  perchance  the  change  of  custom  and  manner  is 
such  that  antiquarian  research  is  requisite  for 
intelligent  appreciation.  Then,  whatever  its  other 
merits,  it  becomes  literature  exclusively  for  pro- 
fessional or  amateur  antiquarians.  So,  a  Hamlet 
is  to-day  more  to  us  than  an  Othello,  though  the 
latter  masterwork  is  perhaps  the  greater  of  the 
two  structurally,  and  in  the  other  three  respects 
its  equal.  Jealousy  is  no  longer,  in  its  extreme 
manifestation,  sympathetic  to  us.  We  are  for 
lago,  with  all  his  villainy,  rather  than  for  the 
Moor  in  his  brutal  violence.  So  also  a  Flaubert 
elaborately  produces  a  historic  novel,  "Salamm- 
bo;"  and,  attempting  the  recreation  of  the  past 
in  its  singularity  and  obsolete  detail,  runs  great 
risk  of  not  recreating  his  cultured  reader,  which 
was  incontestably  his  first  duty. 

Ha,  but  who  shall  predict  the  course  of  human 
progress!  There  are  occasional  revivals.  His- 
tory repeats  itself?  True.  Yet  certain  steps  are 
taken  finally  for  the  great  majoritj^  of  readers. 
Therefore  certain  otherwise  excellent  works  must 
alas !  suffer  partial  or  total  neglect.  What  will  it 
avail,  for  instance,  to  praise  composition,  con- 
struction, style  of  a  play  by  Terence  which  takes 


36  THE  VITAL  STUDY 

for  granted  the  innocence  of  what  is  to  us  mon- 
strous, and  reciuires  admiring  sympathy  for  a 
criminal  in  his  very  most  abhorrent  and  loath- 
some crime  ?  But  this  the  learned  erudite  special- 
ist protests  is  not  just  to  Terence!  Ay,  ay,  but 
who  cares  egregiously  for  Terence  and  his  claims, 
said  estimable  plaj^wright  having  had  his  full  due 
long  since!  It  is  not  just  to  me,  the  living  man, 
to  recommend  that  fundamentally  indecent  play 
as  a  work  of  beauty.  True,  the  morality  and  the 
beauty  are  in  theory  distinct;  but  I,  the  living 
reader,  am  not  built  on  the  compartment  plan — 
I  cannot  cease  to  be  the  moral  man  while  I  am 
the  aesthete.  Justice  to  the  living  and  oblivion, 
if  need  were,  to  the  dead!  Only  those  works  of 
the  dead  that  live  and  have  a  right  to  live  shall  be 
part  of  our  educational  curriculum.  Such  will  be 
our  jDrineiple  of  criticism  in  this  respect,  offend 
whom  it  may. 

Yet  clearly  here  we  find  ourselves  ill  prepared 
to  administer  the  law  to  contemporary  works. 
We  are  much  too  blind  to  our  special  vanities,  af- 
fectations, sing-ularities,  prejudices  to  resent  them 
unless  grossly  obtruded.  How  much  of  our  be- 
loved Browning,  Ibsen,  Meredith,  Hugo,  Balzac, 
which  is  else  most  justifiable,  will  perish  on  this 
count?  How  much  will  cease  to  be  read,  simply 
because  the  ship  of  culture  must  at  all  cost  be 
lightened,  even  if  some  treasures  go  overboard? 
Yet  what  cause  for  pride  when  even  masterpieces 
can    thus    be    sacrificed!     The    seas    are    ever 


OF  LITERATURE  37 

smoother,  the  ship  is  not  in  peril.  No,  it  means 
that  so  much  that  is  excellent  has  been  since  pro- 
duced. So  much!  What  a  grand  suggestion  of 
the  vitality  of  the  race!  Genius,  like  the  sun, 
darts  rays  into  planetless  void — reckless,  for  it 
needs  not  to  reckon.  ''Bring  forth  weight  and 
measure  in  a  year  of  dearth,"  cries  the  inspired 
Blake.  Overboard  then  with  whatever  we  dare 
dispense  with — and  fear  not,  for  below  deck  new 
and  greater  poets  will  be  born — with  or  without 
consent  of  the  literary  Cerberus ! 

Sixthly,  we  ought  to  admit  there  is  an  adventi- 
tioiis  value — usually  the  creation  of  humanity, 
not  consciously  at  all  events  of  the  author.  We 
have  read  something  so  long  into  a  work,  that 
now  we  read  it  out  of  it.  How  long  shall  we  con- 
tinue to  do  so!  That  is  the  question.  Forever, 
doubtless,  if  there  is  any  reasonable  excuse  for  so 
doing.  What  makes  us  love  Don  Quixote?  Its 
interest  as  a  burlesque!  Hardly.  A  good  burles- 
que, in  so  far  as  it  slays  its  enemy,  commits  hara- 
kiri  promptly  thereafter.  What  is  a  burlesque 
without  the  popularity  of  its  victim!  Does  it 
charm,  as  a  story,  by  sheer  interest  in  the  hap- 
penings of  the  human  agents  as  persons:  Don 
Quixote  of  the  sorrowful  countenance,  or  even 
Sancho  of  the  paunch?  Hardly.  Ah!  but  as  a 
symbolic  expression  of  the  two  parts  of  man,  the 
idealistic  element,  the  materialistic  element;  the 
brave,  loyal  love  of  principle  so  usually  blind  to 
facts    and    incapable   of   learning    from   painful 


38  THE  VITAL  STUDY 

experience;  the  cowardly,  sensual  love  of  self, 
shrewd,  gifted  with  mother  wit,  but  needing 
sorely  elevation  by  constant  commerce  with  the 
nobler  element :  how  as  an  externalization  of  our 
spiritual  life,  as  our  own  self-knowledge  writ 
large — ah;  how  it  does  appeal  to  us,  how  its 
"echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul!"  passing  far  be- 
yond the  bookish  circle,  filling  the  great  round 
world!  Yet,  who  of  Pindian  weather  prophets 
could  have  foreseen  all  this?  Cervantes  in  the 
first  part  of  his  immortal  romance  meant  to  kill  a 
craze,  and  in  the  second  to  kill  a  hero  imprudently 
left  alive  for  the  use  of  others  less  skillful  than 
our  author! 

Summing  up  what  we  have  said,  it  is  clear  that 
our  ascertained  canons  of  criticism,  (1)  grasp  of 
stuff,  (2)  composition,  (3)  construction,  (4)  style, 
(5)  modernity,  (6)  symbolic  suggestiveness,  are 
not  all  applicable  with  equal  ease  or  certainty. 
The  best  care,  sanity  and  sweet  aesthetic  savour, 
will  not  avoid  errors  altogether. 

At  all  events,  our  manual  is  to  care  nothing  for 
historic,  biographic,  traditional  estimates ;  to  set 
down  everything  according  to  its  possession  in 
greater  or  less  degree  of  these  attributes  condu- 
cive to  literary  longevity.  Yet  shall  not  the  com- 
piler of  our  handbook  dare,  not  merely  to  pass 
over  in  silence  a  Butler's  "Hudibras,"  a  Young's 
"Night  Thoughts,"  the  rhjnued  romances  of  By- 
ron ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  attempt  a  bold  adver- 
tisement of  certain  forgotten  masterpieces  that 


OF  LITERATURE  39 

died  not  by  demerit,  for  lack  of  the  qualities  that 
endear  when  known,  but  by  the  ill  chance  which 
failed  to  accord  them  a  reasonable  initial  public- 
ity? Assuredly  our  descriptive  catalogue  of  great 
works,  when  perfected,  will  need  supersession,  and 
shortly,  too,  by  a  better  and  wiser  one ;  but  will  it 
not  be  something  to  have  served  for  a  day  or  two 
the  best  interest  of  possible  culture?  Is  it  not 
glory  enough  to  provoke  emulation,  to  compel  into 
existence  those  that  will  be  more  powerful  than 
we?  We  have  toiled,  invited  Minerva,  and  lo, 
from  the  sea  springeth  the  Cyprian  maid  herself ! 
This,  the  reward  of  all  noble  literary  failure,  is 
the  reward  for  all  noble,  vital  criticism,  however 
brief  its  terms  of  authority  and  credit. 

V. 

But,  in  conclusion,  it  may  be  objected,  a  hand- 
book of  literature  on  the  lines  suggested  is  only 
for  the  adult?  The  schoolboy,  the  youth  at  col- 
lege, needs  what?  To  be  inoculated  with  a  hatred 
of  literature?  Yet,  wherefore  so  dogmatically 
browbeat  and  impose  upon  the  young?  Besides, 
one  cannot  really  do  so.  One  can  only  make  of 
them  adults  who  look  back  at  their  text-book 
maker  angrily,  as  the  schoolroom  tyrant  who  suc- 
ceeded in  spoiling  some  part  of  their  golden  age, 
for  whom  may  certain  agelong  fires  be  stoked ! 

If  the  six  principles  here  set  down  as  an  analy- 
sis of  the  main  attributes  which  tend  to  secure 


40        THE  VITAL  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE 

the  survival  of  literature  because,  adapting  them 
to  what  is  permanent,  or  fairly  so,  in  human  na- 
ture, and  which,  therefore,  govern  the  natural  se- 
lection in  books;  if  these  six  principles  be  found 
reasonably  correct;  if  the  survival  of  literary 
works  is  in  the  main  that  of  the  fittest ;  if  works 
that  show  the  six  above  attributes,  or  a  goodly 
number  of  them,  to  a  remarkable  degree,  ought  to 
be  regarded  as  worthy  of  dignified  yet  wide- 
awake advertisement,  because  probably  fit  for  re- 
vival, the  mere  victims  of  minor  accidents; — then 
surely  a  manual  of  English  literature  for  adults 
needs  to  be  written  on  such  lines,  and  manuals  for 
school  and  college  also,  remembering  to  allow  for 
age  and  temperament;  descriptive  catalogues — 
that  is  to  say,  claiming  besides  to  be  no  more,  and 
able  therefore  to  quicken  the  desire  for  diligent 
reading,  and  proportionate  understanding  and  en- 
joyment! And  is  it  mere  Quixotism  to  break  a 
lance  in  such  a  cause?  Is  it  mad  optimism  to  be- 
lieve that  when  such  works,  successful  perhaps 
only  after  repeated  failure,  have  come  into  gen- 
eral use  the  race  of  educated  illiterates  will  be- 
come so  well-nigh  extinct  as  to  justify  the  preser- 
vation of  some  specimens  in  every  well-supplied 
zoological  collection? 


TRANSLATION:  A  METHOD  FOR  THE 
VITAL  STUDY  OF  LITERATURE. 


I.    The  Pedagogical.  Problem. 

Not  only  is  the  poet  born  such,  but  the  lover  of 
poetry  likewise  cannot,  in  popular  opinion,  be  cre- 
ated by  any  educational  method  hitherto  discov- 
ered. This  much  truth  there  seems  to  be  in  the 
hopeless  view  of  them  that  love  not  the  Muses: 
that  just  as  the  poet  requires  for  his  prime  endow- 
ment a  kindled  imagination,  so  the  would-be  lover 
of  poetry  needs  to  have  his  imagination  kindled, 
either  by  the  haphazard  of  personal  experience  at 
the  due  time  of  susceptibility,  or  rather  by  the 
transmission  from  another  of  the  kindling  sacred 
fire.  No  teacher,  however  accomplished  and  pains- 
taking, will  succeed  in  the  matter  of  creating  the 
love  of  great  poetry,  or  bringing  even  to  a  per- 
sonal consciousness  of  the  worth  for  the  pupil  of 
high  literary  art,  unless  there  be  occasions  art- 
fully found  or  created  for  the  transmission  of  the 
divine  fire  of  worship. 

Just,  however,  as  the  scholar  starts  out  with  the 
assumption  that  the  truth  can  be  known,  so  the 
teacher  should  profoundly  believe  that  his  "sub- 
ject" can  be  taught;  and  in  the  case  of  the  teacher 
of  literature,  his  "subject"  is  really  the  "appre- 

41 


42  TRANSLATION 

ciation  of  an  Art,  and  its  products"  or — and  we 
tremble  at  the  portentous  suggestion, — better  still, 
''the  pursuit  of  the  art  in  efforts  at  production." 
It  will  be  at  once  objected  by  the  facetious,  that  we 
have  poets,  litterateurs  and  amateurs  in  a  sufficient 
number  to  cause  anxiety — a  case  already  of  over- 
production! The  solemn  reply  to  a  jest  is  proof 
of  dullness.  The  real  superfluity  we  endure  is  in 
talent  untrained,  or  in  talent  overtrained  because 
mistakenly  self-trained  by  methods  that  exhaust 
inspiration  in  pedantry;  or  else  our  superfluity 
consists  in  talent  prostituted,  at  least  \nilgarized, 
bv  the  demand  of  those  who  can  read  and  write 
and  reckon,  but  are  none  the  less  of  the  profane. 

It  should  be  possible  to  do  at  all  events  for  Lit- 
erary Art,  what  is  done  for  the  formal  and  deco- 
rative  arts  in  countless  studios,  schools  and  insti- 
tutes. What  of  the  great  expenditures  of  talent, 
enthusiasm,  and  funds  in  the  teaching  of  the  most 
spiritual  of  the  arts — music !  It  is  foolish  to  keep 
on  quoting  by  rote  "poeta  nascitur  non  fit."  What 
of  artists  in  the  other  arts  not  less  divine?  Ap- 
parently no  such  absurd  overstatement  of  the  ne- 
cessity of  inspiration  is  made  to  serve  as  a  sui- 
cidal pedagogic  assumption  in  the  case  of  those 
other  arts.  Aspirants  after  excellent  perform- 
ance, or  merely  appreciation  sane  and  inspiring, 
are  procured  the  conditions  of  aiDprenticeship, 
based  on  the  needs  of  the  artistic  temperament  in 
the  average  instance  as  ascertained  from  experi- 
ence.   Why  should  literary  art  continue  to  be  con- 


TRANSLATION  43 

sidered  an  absolute  exception,  in  that,  those  desir- 
ous of  its  service  are  condemned  to  costly  autodi- 
dactic  experimentation?  Because  genius  does  oc- 
casionally win  against  enormous  odds  sensational 
victory  on  behalf  of  the  race,  shall  we  be  cursed 
— not  with  "mute  inglorious  Miltons"  but — with 
the  pathetic  wrong-headedness  of  misdirected  am- 
bition, the  morose  mediocrity  of  exhausted  talent, 
the  commercialized  cleverness  of  improvisations, 
which  are  so  clearly  due,  in  large  measure,  to  an 
inadequate  culture  and  improper  apprenticeship 
in  his  youth  of  the  aspirant  to  fame? 

In  a  previous  paper  have  been  stated,  perhaps 
too  tartly,  what  seem  to  be  the  characteristics  of 
the  Classic ;  and  what,  therefore,  are  the  qualities 
to  be  sought  for  his  product  by  the  literary  crafts- 
man. But  the  problem  still  remains,  how  to  elimi- 
nate the  conceit  and  vanity — the  self-conscious  idi- 
osyncrasy of  the  student — and  secure  his  schol- 
arly and  business-like  application  to  the  mastery 
of  his  technique.  Since,  however,  no  teacher  of  lit- 
erature at  any  college  avows  the  deliberate  pur- 
pose to-day  of  producing  literary  creators, — only 
at  best  refined  appreciators,  or  may  be  pedantic 
water-witches,  duly  Ph.D'd,  divining  subterra- 
nean sources — it  would  be  expedient  if  we  stated 
frankly  that  the  literary  creator  and  the  literary 
appreciator  are  not  so  far  removed  from  one  an- 
other as  at  first  glance  may  appear. 

If  I  am  to  enjoy  a  written  poem  to  the  fullest 
possible  degree,  it  must  be  that,  through  the  me- 


44  TRANSLATION 

diiim  of  suggestive  rhythms,  rhymes    and    tone 
color,  through  collocations  of  word-meanings,  and 
usage  associations,  I  am  stirred  to  re-create  the 
poet's  creation,  to  visualize,thrillingly  realize,  com- 
pose, construct,  give  enchanting  verbal  and  tonal 
expressions  to  the  central  idea;  except  that  the 
process  is  not  thus  analyzed,  or  followed  in  strict 
logical  sequence,  or  in  any  necessary  close  con- 
formity with  that  of  the  original  poet  himself. 
The  same  poem  gives  me  each  time  a  different 
complex  happiness,  so  that  clearly  all  sorts  of  va- 
riety is  allowed  in  the  process  of  re-creation,  where- 
by the  poem  of  the  poet  becomes  my  poem,  and  I 
its  second  poet  for  the  nonce.    The  first  poet  dif- 
fers from  me,  his  sympathetic  reader  and  the  sec- 
ond poet,  only  in  the  fact  that  he  was  first  to  dis- 
cover, to  initiate,  combine,  devise,  experience  sur- 
prise, and  thrill  with  inspiration.     Besides,  the 
sense  of  origination,  of  aesthetic  pioneership,  gave 
him  a  consciousness  of  unconscious    power,    for 
which  I,  his  reader,  must  substitute  worshij?  of  his 
vicarious  genius,  if  I  am  to  compass  the  gross 
equivalent  for  his  large  delight.    If  re-creation  be 
then  but  secondary  creation,  we  need  merely  dis- 
tinguish between    primary  and    secondary   crea- 
tion ;  and,  while  not  presuming  to  produce  or  train 
genius  as  such,  we  can  study  how  to  teach  **  crea- 
tion," without  regard  to  originative  genius.    So, 
then,  the  genius  will  thereby  obtain  help  for  his 
work  of  origination,  and  the  man  of  less  extraor- 
dinary ability  will  be  brought  to  understand  po- 


TRANSLATION  45 

etic  art  from  the  poet's  point  of  vie^v.  The  latter 
will  be  better  fitted  to  enjoy  his  earned  place  as 
appreciator  and  patron  of  the  art,  not  less  right- 
fully his  art  in  virtue  of  his  ability  to  reproduce 
into  glorious  fullness  for  himself  the  beauty  of 
the  original  work  of  his  contemporary,  with  calm 
confidence  in  his  own  spontaneous  yet  trained 
sympathy  as  superior  to  any  post-mortem  health 
certificate  called  a  favorable  critical  judgment; 
since  from  the  nature  of  the  case  such  a  critical 
judgment  absolutely  precludes  and  renders  super- 
fluous any  fraternal  assistance  on  the  part  of  the 
man  of  taste  to  the  living  artist,  his  brother  of 
more  temperament  and  vital  propulsion! 

Supposing  it  to  be  granted  by  our  reader,  for 
argument 's  sake  at  least,  that  the  teacher  of  liter- 
ature should  make  it  his  chief  aim  to  impart  such 
training  as  will  subserve  the  needs  alike  of  the 
primary  and  the  secondary  creator,  we  are  then 
face  to  face,  only,  with  a  practical  question  of  ped- 
agogical method.  It  might  be  shown  how  after  a 
careful  scrutiny  of  the  field  of  masterpieces,  cases 
rare,  yet  sufficiently  numerous,  offer  themselves, 
for  our  purpose,  of  poems  in  the  making.  AVe  have 
Chaucer's  two  versions  of  his  ''Prologue  to  the 
Legend  of  Good  AVomen",  of  which  the  second  so 
vastly  improves  on  the  first,  by  transposition  chief- 
ly of  paragraphs.  AVe  have  similarly  the  extraordi- 
nary example  of  AA'ordsworth's  intruded  eighth 
stanza  to  his  ''Ode  to  Duty";  of  Keats'  rejected 
first  stanza  to  the  "Ode  on  Melancholy".     We 


46  TRANSLATION 

have  Wordsworth's  divers  treatment  of  practi- 
cally the  same  material  in  the  agreeable  record  of  a 
poetic  experience  entitled:  "To  a  Highland  Girl", 
and  in  the  magnificent  lyric  poem,  full  of  rhyth- 
mic spell  power,  and  inexhaustible  suggestiveness, 
called:  "The  Solitary  Reaper."  Such  opportuni- 
ties for  intimate  glimpses  into  the  holy  place  of 
the  muses,  and  into  the  workshop  of  their  priests, 
are  not  so  scarce,  but  what  a  good  teacher,  who 
loves  and  reasonably  well  knows  the  world's  great 
poetry,  can  keep  a  class  most  usefully  and  delight- 
fully employed  for  the  several  years  of  a  Univer- 
sity course.  The  evil,  however,  of  this  method, 
taken  by  itself,  lies  in  the  difficulty  of  applying 
any  but  mechanical,  or  purely  personal  tests  to  the 
industry,  proficiency  and  good  will  of  the  student. 
Besides,  the  imaginatively  indolent  student  will 
content  himself  with  his  teacher's  analysis,  or 
with  his  own ;  and  wholly  fail  to  exercise  the  very 
faculties  it  is  desired  to  train,  through  the  means 
of  the  merely  rational  expositions,  namely,  the 
imagination,  the  visual  power,  and  the  emotional 
understanding. 

Now,  for  the  student  of  literature  who  is  so  un- 
fortunate as  to  know  one  language  only,  there  is 
no  help  in  the  ancient  method,  which  we  propose 
by  this  paper  to  advocate  and  extol.  He  will  have 
to  combine  the  close  observation  of  literary  mas- 
terpieces, the  memorization  of  particular  Arnold- 
ian  tidbits ;  the  exploitation  of  fortunate  instances 
which  are,  as  aforesaid,  after  all  not  so  few  but 


TRANSLATION  47 

that,  with  the  good  student,  they  will  richly  suffice 
to  give  him  an  aesthetic  comprehension,  although 
perhaps  they  might  leave  him  unstimulated  to 
realize  imaginatively,  unless  he  have  imparted  to 
him  the  personal  enthusiasm  of  his  teacher.  ^But 
the  student  of  literature  who  has  at  least  the  rudi- 
ments of  another  language;  who  understands, 
therefore,  the  relations  which  always  exist  be- 
tween thought  and  feeling  on  the  one  hand,  and 
sounds  and  words  on  the  other,  bound  by  the  arbi- 
trary laws  of  a  particular  grammar  and  syntax, 
that  is  to  say,  of  folk-temperament  and  intellec- 
tual or  emotional  bent  and  habit ;  for  him  becomes 
available  to  the  full  the  wondrous  pedagogical  ex- 
pedient of  translation. 

It  has  been  argued  from  time  to  time  by  the  fa- 
natic of  language-study  that  literature  cannot  be 
taught  at  all,  imless  it  be  literature  in  a  foreign 
tongue.  Only  with  the  difficulties  incident  to  the 
foreign  tongue  could  that  attentive  observation 
of  linguistic  details  be  exacted,  which  is  so  funda- 
mental to  the  aesthetic  perfection  of  the  artist's 
great  work,  and,  therefore,  to  its  complete  appre- 
ciation. This,  I  fear  me,  is  a  desperate  plea  of  the 
philologian  with  an  accomplishment  for  sale,  in  an 
age  that  depreciates  his  divine  wares.  A^Tiile  the 
present  writer  himself  is  polyglot  by  birth  and 
rearing,  and  naturally  enough  believes,  therefore, 
at  least  in  the  cloven  tongue,  he  cannot  sincerely 
allow  this  argument  to  be  taken  for  more  than  its 
real  value.     Pedagogical  difBculty  does  not  con- 


48  TRANSLATION 

stitute  for  the  good  teacher  a  baffling  impossibil-. 
ity.  Besides,  Spencer,  Shakespeare,  and  Milton 
have  been  found  in  actual  exiDerience  quite  suffi- 
ciently foreign  for  the  ordinary  college  student  to 
require  the  use  of  the  glossary  in  a  right  whole- 
some frequency,  and  to  parse  to  his  heart's  dis- 
tress for  an  intelligent  report  of  the  particular 
poems'  content  and  intent.  If  Chaucer,  Brown- 
ing, Eossetti  and  Meredith  be  invoked  to  the  teach- 
er's further  aid,  in  the  interest  of  thoroughness, 
we  do  not  seriously  fear  the  student  will  glide 
along  so  smoothly  through  a  diction  and  a  syntax 
too  exceedingly  familiar,  but  what  his  faculties 
will  be  kept  in  a  walking  alertness ! 

It  is,  indeed,  too  late  to  praise  translation  with 
the  hope  of  being  thought  original!  Down  from 
classic  time  it  was  deemed   the   best    expedient. 

Practically  all  culture  revivals  have  begun 
with  translation.  But  too  often  in  the  classroom 
it  has  been  used  as  an  exercise  merely  unto  the 
close  study  of  the  foreign  original,  rather  than 
as  a  means  of  exigent  discipline  in  the  mother- 
tongue  itself. 

But  furthermore,  translations  can  be  collected 
and  criticized,  and  in  some  instances  produced  by 
teacher  and  pupil,  from  the  mother-tongue  into 
some  foreign  language.  When  Shelley's  ''Ode  to 
the  West  Wind"  is  carefully  read  and  scrutinized 
in  German,  French,  and  Italian  translations,  much 
is  learned  as  to  the  untransmissible  glories  of  the 
original.      When    Shakespeare    is    pondered    in 


TRANSLATION  49 

Schiller's,  Sclilegel's  or  Tieck's  German,  or 
Hugo's  French,  one  has  novel,  very  singular  and 
most  excitingly  profita])Ie  experience.  Freili- 
grath's  Burns  or  Byron,  ay,  and  his  Tennyson, 
too,  are  not  to  be  passed  over  slightingly ;  and  his 
"Ancient  Mariner"  of  Coleridge  is  more  instruc- 
tive for  us  than  Coleridge's  ''Wallenstein"  of 
Schiller.  The  collection,  collation,  and  sympa- 
thetic examination  of  versions  of  given  English 
masterpieces  into  kindred  languages,  is  then  a 
pedagogical  device  of  great  value  for  deepening 
and  rendering  more  aesthetically  acute  and  deli- 
cate the  study  of  the  masterpiece  in  question. 

This  use  of  translation,  although  approving 
itself  by  the  very  first  conscientious  experiment, 
is  still,  however,  not  of  such  a  nature  as  necessar- 
ily to  stimulate  the  student's  creative  imagina- 
tion. He  may  make  the  superiority  of  his  orig- 
inal the  basis  of  a  Chauvinistic  preference  for  his 
mother-tongue.  He  may  study  his  original  word 
for  word,  phrase  by  phrase,  and  j^et  keep  the  crit- 
ic's attitude  only,  never  himself  wrestling  with 
the  angel  for  the  divine  name.  Delille's  ''Para- 
dise Lost"  may  deserve  for  a  silly  depreciation  of 
Alexandrine  couplets  only,  as  compared  with  Mil- 
tonic  blank  verse,  or  to  strengthen  a  preposter- 
ous provincial  prejudice  endorsed  by  the  petty 
Emersonian  line: 

"France  where  poet  never  grew;" — 

a  line,  the  truth  of  which  is  so  evident  to  such  as 
are  not  masters  enough  of  French  to  revel  in  the 
magical  music  of  French  verse ! 


50  TRANSLATION 

Translations,  however,  into  the  student's  lan- 
guage of  foreign  classics,  which  he  can  also  study 
in  the  original,  serve  to  correct  this  unfortunate 
tendency.  It  soon  appears  that  all  languages  are 
rich  and  poor  by  turn.  Always  the  poet  knows  in- 
tuitively or  by  training  the  special  resources  of 
his  instrument,  and  takes  advantage  of  its  native 
and  acquired  possibilities,  so  that,  from  the  na- 
ture of  the  case,  no  poem  is  susceptible  of  a  word 
for  word,  or  phrase  by  phrase,  or  even  sentence  by 
sentence  translation.  A  boast  for  instance  like 
that  of  Mr.  Dennis  Florence  McCarthy  that 
**  every  speech  and  fragment  of  a  speech  are  rep- 
resented in  English  by  the  exact  number  of  lines 
of  the  original,"  and  furthermore,  as  the  title- 
page  advertises  ''in  the  metre  of  the  original," 
cannot  in  the  case  of  Calderon  promise  success. 
Conception  rather  by  conception  has  to  be  ren- 
dered, and  not  phrase  by  phrase ;  and  it  is  purely 
a  matter  of  coincidence,  in  rhythmic  and  metric 
resources,  if  a  rendering  even  of  line  for  line  is 
possible.  Verbal  identities  are  only  sought  by 
the  pedant.  The  man  of  taste  will  be  happy  if  he 
can  find  equivalences  achieved  for  him,  and  his 
experience  will  have  shown  him  how  difficult  is 
the  attainment  even  of  reasonably  fair  equiva- 
lences.^ For,  let  the  familiar  truth  be  spoken  once 
again.  If  there  be,  as  Archbishop  Trench  plead,- 
an  "intimate  coherence  between  a  poem's  form 
and  its  spirit,"  and  that  '^one  cannot  be  altered 

*  Preface    to    Calderon's    Dramas. 

*  Calderon,   His   Life  and  Genius,  with   Specimens  of  his  Plays, 
by  Richard  Chevenix  Trench, 


TRANSLATION  61 

without  at  the  same  time  most  seriously  affecting 
the  other,"  this  is,  indeed,  due  in  large  part  to  the 
fact  that  the  form  is  not  "as  a  garment",  but  ''the 
flesh  and  blood  which  the  inner  soul  of  it  has 
woven  for  itself;"  which  amounts  to  saying  that 
the  experienced  possibilities  of  expression  have 
reacted  more  or  less  unconsciously  on  the  poet's 
particular  mode  of  conception.  Had  there  not  of- 
fered itself  such  a  fortunate  word,  such  an  allur- 
ing rhyme,  well,  the  composition  might  have  been 
altogether  other  than  it  is.  To  insist,  then,  as  the 
''only  principle  of  all  true  translation,"  upon 
''adherence  to  the  form  as  well  as  to  the  essence 
of  the  original,"  is  to  ask  of  a  translator  more 
than  the  poet  could  himself  have  originally  done 
in  any  but  his  own  particular  language,  no  matter 
what  his  skill  in  any  other. 

Just  at  this  point  nothing  could  be  more  in- 
structive than  to  compare  the  "Youth  and  Lord- 
ship" of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  with  the  Italian 
original,  which  his  brother  positively  asserts  to 
have  been  also  his  own  composition,  as  made  evi- 
dent by  corrected  manuscript.  It  was  impossible 
to  translate  such  brief  lines  closely,  with  adher- 
ence to  metre,  and  rhyme  system ;  and  even  apart 
from  that  consideration,  with  a  feeling  for  good 
taste.  What  is  playful  in  Italian  may  be  coarse 
in  English.  Surely  any  other  poet  would  proceed 
like  Rosetti,  in  the  translation  of  his  own  work  to 
re-visualize  and  to  render  conception  by  concep- 
tion, and  where  necessary  take  from  the  vision  in 


52  TRANSLATION 

the  second  instance,  what  would  suit  the  language 
into  which  he  now  renders  it,  although  he  might 
have  neglected  before  to  express  these  newly- 
chosen  elements,  and  expressed  rather  some  oth- 
ers belonging  to  the  same  essential  composition. 

Pointing  to  a  similar  conclusion,  we  note  the 
striking  fact  that  Eossetti  translated  into  Eng- 
lish neither  his  "Barcarola,"^  nor  his  "Bambino 
Faciato;"  the  first  depending  so  largely  on  a  most 
fortunate  rhyme  ''tomba-rimbomba,"  which  could 
not  be  paralleled  in  English;  and  the  latter  little 
poem  upon  a  quite  praiseworthy  and  charming 
frankness,  nay,  naivete,  incident  to  Italian  speech 
on  the  subject  of  paternity  and  maternity,  which 
could  not  be  comj^assed  by  a  language  bearing 
still,  as  doth  ours,  the  scars  of  the  Puritan  Move- 
ment on  its  body,  and  the  starch  and  bluing  of  a 
factitious  holiness  in  the  singing  robes  thereof! 

Clearly,  some  theory  of  translation  must  be 
formulated  by  our  students  of  literature  who 
adopt  this  pedagogical  expedient,  which  shall  be 
modest  enough  to  make  a  fair  result  seem  within 
the  regions  of  the  possible.  Lord  Woodhouselee's 
well-known  Essay^  (1797)  might  help  in  dignifying 
with  classic  authority  and  copious,  however  old- 
fashioned,  precedent,  both  good  and  bad,  the 
Translator's  art.     Matthew  Arnold's  still  better 

^Oltre  tomba  Bevond  the  tomb. 

Qualche  cosa?  Is  there  aught? 

Eche  lie  dicif  And  what  sav  you  of  it? 

Saremo  feUcif  Shall  we  be  happy? 

Terra  mai  posa.  The  Earth  never  resteth, 

Emar  rimbomba  And  the  sea,  echoing,  roareth. 

*  Reprinted,    J.    M.    Dent,    "Everynnan's   Library." 


TRANSLATION  63 

known  Essay  ''On  Translating  Homer"  would 
serve  to  correct  what  in  the  former  may  seem 
eighteenth  century  predilection  for  "polite "para- 
phrase. At  all  events,  once  a  reasonable  theory 
adopted,  which  takes  into  account  (to  repeat  our 
contention)  the  indisputable  fact,  that  any  poet  in 
his  original  yielded  unwittingly  yet  really  to  the 
demands,  or  the  allurements  of  his  native  speech; 
and  would,  were  he  his  own  translator,  do  again 
likewise,  only  a  trifle  more  consciously,  when 
confronted  with  the  commands  and  charms  of  the 
English  muse,  to  the  neglect  of  any  detailed  re- 
semblance between  his  first  and  his  second  pro- 
duction;— once  then,  such  an  accommodation  be- 
tween the  translator  and  the  paraphrast  attained 
in  theory,  wiiat  an  astounding  education  becomes 
possible  in  practice  for  the  student  of  Literature ! 

Always  will  the  language  of  the  translator  seem 
the  more  restricted,  the  less  subtle,  the  less  instinct 
with  poetic  facility,  and  felicitous  correspondence 
of  sound  with  sense.  How  will  he  not  have  to 
study  the  grand  organ,  on  which,  bounden  captive 
of  a  foreign  muse,  he  must  if  possible  transpose 
the  composition  scored  for  a  whole  orchestra  of 
strange  instruments!  And  when  he  has  come  to 
perform  such  feats  with  reasonable  ease,  suppos- 
ing he  has  a  creative  imagination  at  all,  how  will 
he  not,  when  deeply  stirred,  find  it  easy  to  impro- 
vise on  his  own  account,  as  the  spirit  gives  him 
conception  and  urges  him  to  utterance! 

It  will  be  asserted,  perhaps,  that  verse  is  pos- 


54  TRANSLATION 

sible  only  to  the  jooet ;  and,  that  our  college  classes 
are  not  composed  of  poets.  To  this  we  reply: 
verse  is  an  accomplishment,  possible  with  fair  per- 
fection for  any  person  of  reasonable  intelligence, 
if  the  training  be  begun  early  enough  in  life. 
There  are  those  who  have  no  ear  for  pitch,  no 
sense  of  time,  no  eye  for  color.  There  are,  to  be 
sure,  defectives,  degenerates,  idiots.  But  it  will 
be  found  that  on  the  whole,  a  goodly  percentage 
of  healthy  students  do  promptly  master  the  art 
of  versification  with  a  fair  enough  degree  of  skill 
to  make  translation  an  available  pedagogical 
method. 

It  may  again  be  asserted,  that  we  shall  thus  tend 
to  produce  countless  pretenders,  who,  invita  Mi- 
nerva, will  have  to  pay  out  of  their  slender  in- 
comes for  the  appearance  from  time  to  time  of 
innocuous  volumes  of  verse  which  make  the 
trained  reviewer  smile  superciliously  as  they  coy- 
ly look  up  to  him  from  his  book-thronged  desk. 
Far  be  such  a  malign  fate  from  us !  To  have  ac- 
quired the  accomplishment  of  verse,  and  the  prac- 
tice of  translating  great  poetry,  would,  if  any- 
thing, tend  to  deliver  us  of  poor,  therefore,  quite 
useless  rhymesters,  and  bequeath  to  us  in  their 
stead,  good  and  perhaps  excellent  translators,  and 
benefactors  so  of  such  of  their  fellow-men  as  can- 
not ''read  every  language  under  the  sun, — and 
think  and  speak  and  write  in  none!" 


TRANSLATION  65 

II.     Paraphrast  and  Translator. 

Now  it  might  not  be  amiss,  while  considering  the 
problem  of  translation,  to  make  clear  once  again 
by  illustrations  some  of  the  most  elementary  but 
therefore  often  overlooked  problems.  In  attempt- 
ing of  late  to  teach  the  Poetry  of  the  Bible,  merely 
as  poetry,  the  present  writer  was  confronted  with 
the  serious  difficulty,  that  translations,  for  in- 
stance, of  the  Psalms,  had  been  made  for  all  pur- 
poses rather  than  that  of  exhibiting  the  rhetorical 
or  rather  poetic  principle  on  which  the  effect  of 
the  original  so  largely  depends.  Coverdale's 
English  is  much  praised  and  not  without  allege- 
able  excuse.  But  respect  for  the  integral  imagi- 
native unity  was  not  in  his  philosophy,  or  in  that 
of  any  scholar  of  his  times.  Dr.  S.  E.  Driver's' 
New  Version  helped  much;  the  virile  Dr.  T.  K. 
Cheyne  more  f  and  Dr.  Charles  Augustus  Briggs^ 
occasionally;  Mr.  Horace  Howard  Furness  (fol- 
lowing Wellhausen)  more  often.^  Always,  how- 
ever, it  was  found  that  the  new  translators  were 
hindered  from  producing  the  desired  total  impact 
on  an  unlearned  reader,  because  the  word  for  word, 
or  even  line  by  line  rendering,  however  idiomatic 
—on  account  of  the  enormous  difference  of  lan- 
guage, implied  associations,  obsolete  religious 
suggestions,— most    grievously    under-represent- 

•Clarendon   Press,    1904. 

•Book  of  Psalms,   Kegan,   Paul.  Trench  &  Co.   ISSO. 

Wn«J''«^"U^o.°"^    ^o     *^®    International    Critical    Commentary.    The 
Book   of   Psalms.    2    vols.      Scnbner's.      1906. 

»Haupfs  Polychrome   Bible.     Dodd,  Mead  &   Co.     1898. 


56  TRANSLATION 

ed,  to  a  positive  poverty,  the  original 
poem.  More  than  half  their  real  translations 
were,  besides,  in  the  notes;  or  implicit  in  their 
orientally  polite  presupposition  of  an,  alas,  non- 
extant  Hebraic  element  in  our  diffused  culture. 
Xo  doubt  the  revisers  of  the  Authorized  Version 
sujoposed  that  the  Bible  is  sui  generis,  and  must 
be  translated  without  regard  to  the  general  prin- 
ciple of  prime  reverence  for  idiom  in  the  trans- 
lator's speech.  Since  by  the  felonious  practices 
of  the  unscholarly  theologian,  a  translation  is 
treated  as  an  infallible,  divine  document,  it  be- 
comes, therefore  (in  the  opinion  of  many),  more 
important  to  permit  of  no  improper  inference 
from  the  wording  of  the  translation,  than  to  pro- 
duce the  emotional  and  imaginative  stimulations, 
and  after-glows  of  feeling,  on  which,  when  all  is 
said,  the  Bible  must  in  the  long  run  depend  for 
its  acceptance  as  literature  at  all,  sacred  or  pro- 
fane. To  be  rendered  literally,  and  set  every  de- 
cent literary  tooth  on  edge, — how  conducive  to  the 
right  devotional  spirit!  AYell,  the  Revisers  were 
children  of  their  age,  and  servants,  furthermore, 
not  of  the  Blessed  Muses,  but  of  a  half-hearted 
Modernism.  So  their  labors  were  found  far  less 
helpful  to  the  present  writer  than  those  of  Drs. 
Cheyne,  Driver,  Briggs,  and  the  elegant  Mr.  Fur- 
ness,  whatever  the  respective  demerits  of  their 
versions  in  eyes  wonted  to  the  ecclesiastical  twi- 
light of  the  Gods. 

The  necessity  of  paraphrase  was    what    bore 
itself  in  upon  the  teacher  more  and  more  forcibly. 


TRANSLATION  57 

Nothing,  to  be  sure,  must  be  set  down  in  the  free 
translation  that  did  not,  upon  careful  inspection, 
seem  implied  or  suggested  for  any  intelligent 
reader  of  the  Hebrew  at  the  approximate  time  of 
the  Psalms'  composition  and  living  use  in  temple 
or  synagogue  worship.  But  such  implicit  elements 
of  the  composition  as  could  not  to-day  be  obtained 
from  a  close  English  translation  were  then  to  be 
explicitly  supplied,  and  the  whole  cast  into  a  loose 
anapestic  verse,  such  as  should,  at  least,  re- 
mind us  that  Hebrew  poetry  did  actually  possess 
an  accentual  rhythm  of  its  own,  however  in  some 
respects  unlike  that  adopted  by  the  translator- 
paraphrast  as  most  suitable  for  his  didactic  pur- 
pose. 

PSALM  cxxx 

Out  of  the  deeps  (as  of  the  sea) 

I  cry  to  Thee,  O  God,  who  art  forever; 
God,  my  Master,  heed  my  voice, 
Let  thine  ears  be  exceeding  eager 
For  my  voice  in  its  beseechings. 

If  transgressions  Thou  straitly  reckon 

O  Thou,  who  art  alone  God, 
Who,  O  Master,  shall  stand  upright  before  Thee! 
But  with  Thee,  ay  Thee,  there  is  mercy, 
That  men  truly  may  worship  Thee! 

I  hang  upon  Him  that  is  forever; 

My  life  doth  hang  upon  God; 
On  His  name  I  stay  my  faith. 
My  life  more  yearneth  for  God  my  Master 
Than  they  who  watch  for  the  daybreak. 

[Interrupting  Chorus:  Watchmen  (we)  for  the  breaking  day!] 

Let  Israel  trust  in  Yahweh! 

For  He,  that  is  forever,  is  kind. 
And  multitudes  find  in  Him  their  freedom. 
And  He,  even  He  buyeth  Israel 
From  all  their  transgressions,  free! 


68  TRANSLATION 

The  translator's  modest  contribution  here  lies 
in  the  recovery  of  the  original  unifying  idea.  The 
psalmist  is  speaking  of  himself  and  his  people  un- 
der the  figure  of  bond-slaves  of  Yahweh,  God,  that 
is  to  say,  revealed  as  the  unconditionally  existent 
and  self-consistentj  who,  however,  condescends  to 
necessarily  reciprocal  relations  with  them,  as  mas- 
ter of  his  slaves.  Furthermore,  he  is  such  a  mas- 
ter as  makes  himself  adored  and  desired  even  as 
the  dawn  by  the  sleepless  watchers  of  the  night. 
He  is  one,  besides,  who  will  redeem  not  only  the 
psalmist  and  his  people  to  the  relative  liberty 
which  his  service  constitutes,  as  compared  with 
that  of  the  Egypt  or  Babylon  of  their  transgres- 
sion (ay,  and  the  only  true  liberty) ;  but  he  is  dis- 
posed and  ready  to  redeem  many  more  if  they  will 
but  desire  it,  as  many,  indeed,  as  covet  such  a  re- 
demption. In  this  as  in  every  other  psalm,  to  be 
sure,  the  names  of  God  are  as  critically  important 
for  the  poetic  translator  as  for  the  theologian. 
The  awful  mystery  of  the  manifold  meanings  must 
be  made  specifically  significant  by  regard  to  con- 
text, but  more  especially  in  view  of  the  poem's  or- 
ganic conception.  In  this  particular  case,  it  is  the 
marvel  of  Yahweh 's  being  Adonai  that  constitutes 
the  very  essence  of  the  composition.  So  far,  then, 
in  one  crucial  matter,  our  translation  must  have 
improved,  we  dare  to  affirm  it,  at  least  in  princi- 
ple if  not  in  performance,  on  that  of  the  "Great 
Bible"  or  the  ''Authorized  and  Revised  Version." 
Then,  too,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  supposed 
gloss — the  redundant  "I  say,  before  the  morning 


TRANSLATION  59 

watch" — becomes  a  real  beauty  when  conceived 
as  a  ritual — or  rather,  a  musical  ''repeat."  "We 
venture  here  to  denominate  it  *'an  interrupting 
chorus."  In  sympathetic  inclusiveness  or  catho- 
licity of  spirit  the  psalm  has,  nay,  it  would  seem, 
must  have  gained  not  a  little  by  our  emphasis  on 
the  composition  and  on  the  construction. 

Nevertheless,  alas,  for  our  own  self-satisfaction, 
we  also  are  human,  and  confess  to  grave  disap- 
pointment. Our  version  is  not  the  psalm  we  have 
chanted!  ''Out  of  the  deep  have  I  called  unto 
thee,  0  Lord,  hear  my  voice" — "My  soul  fleeth 
unto  the  Lord,  before  the  morning  watch."  These 
assuredly  were  incantations  to  quicken  the  dead 
soul,  vehicles  of  aspiring  devotion  not  easily  sur- 
passed. We  had  felt  the  "deep"  as  merely  meta- 
phorical, an  abysmal  anguish,  it  was  a  proud  mem- 
ory to  have  experienced;  we  had  imagined  our- 
selves on  its  account  anticipating  death,  and  flee- 
ing on  the  wings  of  the  morning  unto  the  very 
bosom  of  God!  True,  the  "Authorized  Version" 
had  only  "My  soul  waiteth  for  the  Lord;"  but  at 
least  the  "plenteous  redemption"  imparted 
soothingly  a  sense  of  infinite  pardon  for  our  pe- 
culiar needs ;  and  perhaj^s  unconsciously  we  have 
indulged  a  voluptuous  sense  of  monopoly  in  the 
feeling  that  God  should  be  feared  by  our  enemies 
for  the  very  reason  that  there  was  mercy  in  him 
for  the  petty  foibles  of  the  faithful.  It  was  all  so 
deliciously  egoistic,  purely  comforting,  and  0,  so 
privately  pious! 


60  TRANSLATION 

True,  then,  the  conscientious  translator  and  par- 
aphrast  in  this  case  admit  humiliation;  but  they 
must  record  at  the  same  time  the  cause.  Slavery 
is  no  longer  a  living  institution.  It  does  not  de- 
light us  to  consider  the  Eternal  God  as  our  indulg- 
ent Slave-Master,  who  has  bought  us  from  some 
cruel  exploiter  of  soul  and  body.  Indeed,  we  take 
for  granted  that  He  is  merciful.  It  can  appear  to 
us  no  joyful  discovery  that  keeping  books  against 
us  is  not  God's  chief  divine  prerogative  and  most 
commendable  perfection!  The  poem,  then,  is  too 
obsolete  in  its  organic  image  for  great  emotional 
reactions,  unless  we  first,  by  historical  imagina- 
tion, restore  some  quite  fortunately  unthinkable 
social  relations ;  but  even  so  it  will  fail  to  occasion 
a  very  vivid  sense  of  relief.  Losing  the  overlaid 
poetry  of  godly  paraphrasts  through  by-gone 
days,  we  sustain  in  this  instance  so  egregious  a 
loss,  therefore,  because  what  can  be  restored,  in- 
stead of  what  must  be  removed,  is  of  no  verv 
thrilling  present-day  worth. 

Quite  otherwise  do  we  fare  when  we  undertake 
the  restoration  and  careful  translation,  with  but 
little  aid  from  the  paraphrast,  of  the  forty-fifth 
Psalm,  although  even  more  violent  liberties  were 
taken  with  it,  and  for  a  long  time,  by  such  as  suf- 
fered from  hermeneutical  hallucinations  and  pi- 
ously super-induced  exegetical  dementia! 


TRANSLATION  61 

PSALM    XLV 

r 

Deep-stirred  Is  my  spirit:   |  how  goodly  it  is! 

Song-speech  Is  upon  me,  |  wrought  fair  for  a  King. 

My  tongue  the  swift  pen  |  of  him  wisdom  constraineth. 

More  beauteous  art  thou,  (  than  the  sons  be  of  man, 
Graciousness  also  |  hath  been  shed  on  thy  lips;  — 
So  the  mighty  God  |  hath  blessed  thee  forever! 

II 

Gird  thy  sword  on  thy  thigh,  |  most  potent  War-Lord, 
Thy  hallowed  glory  |  yea,  and  thy  majesty. 

Tread  down,  press  forward  |  ride  forth  to  battle, 
For  steadfast  truth  |  and  meekness,  even  justice, 
And  awful  marvels  |  thy  right  hand  shall  show  thee! 

Thy  darts  are  made  keen,  |  the  peoples  fall  before  thee, 
Stricken  in  spirit  [  be  the  foes  of  the  King. 

Thy  throne  is,  O  Might  of  God,  |  from  of  old  and  for  aye. 

An  upright  sceptre  |  the  rod  of  thy  rule; 

Loved  hast  thou  justice  |  and  abhorred  ungodliness: 

So,  the  mighty  God,  |  thy  God,  did  anoint  thee 
With  a  chrism  of  gladness  [  above  all  kings! 

Ill 

Myrrh-aloes  and  cassia  |  they  be  thy  vesture. 
From  ivory  king-halls  |  where  thou  takest  delight; 
Daughters  of  kings  |  be  among  thy  jewels. 
At  thy  right  a  King's  bride  |  all  Or  of  Ophir. 

Harken  O  daughter  |  and  bend  low  thine  ear. 

Remember  not  thy  people  |  nor  the  house  of  thy  father, 

And  the  King  shall  long  |   {fair  as  Eve!)  \  for  thy  beauty, 

He  thy  Lord  is  and  God,  |  O  bow  thee  before  him. 

And  the  daughter  of  the  mightiest  \  shall  come  with  a  gift. 

Of  thy  face  shall  sue  favor  |  the  wealth-lords  of  the  people. 

Altogether  is  she  glorious  |  the  King's  daughter  in  thy  pres- 
ence. 
Close-woven  broideries  |  of  gold  her  raiment, 
In  many-hued  tissue  |  is  she  led  to  the  King. 


62  TRANSLATION 

Virgin-trains  of  her  comrades  ]  shall  be  brought  unto  thee, 

O  be  they  led  |  exulting  and  gladsome, 

O  may  they  enter   |   the  high  hall  of  the  King. 

In  the  stead  of  thy  fathers  |  shall  stand  up  thy  sons, 
Whom  thou  shalt  appoint  thee  |  o'er  all  the  earth  chiefs! 

Made-memorable  be  thy  name  thro'  me  |  from  age  unto  age 
Where  peoples  shall  praise  thee   |   from  of  old  and  for  aye! 

First,  let  us  note  the  elements  of  paraphrase. 
The  ''ready  scribe"  with  which  ends  the  third  line 
can  convey  no  poetic  joy  to  us  as  a  metaphor. 
We  recall  only  too  well  "scribes,  pharisees,  hypo- 
crites." To  modernize  it  as  "ready  writer"  only 
makes  matters  a  little  worse.  We  have  here  in 
our  poem  a  lost  institution,  a  forgotten  calling; 
and  "him  wisdom  constraineth,"  describing  his 
dignity  and  supposed  function,  is  the  best  we  were 
able  to  do  towards  the  literary  salvage  of  the 
opening  lines.  The  intruded  "fair  as  Eve"  in  the 
seventh  line  of  the  third  stanza  is  the  restoration 
of  an  ancient  pun  which  the  rhythmic  utterance, 
and  surely  the  context,  would  keep  present  here  in 
a  Hebrew  poet's  mind,  convinced  reverently  as  ho 
was  of  the  significance  at  all  times  of  personal 
names,  and  the  gravity  of  the  most  trivial  double 
ententes.  To  "desire"  for  the  Hebrew  was  "to 
Eve";  and  "Eve"  was  she  whom  God  fashioned 
to  utter  in  flesh  the  desire  of  man's  eyes,  and  of 
liis  soul.  So,  to  the  king  of  the  forty-fifth  Psalm, 
the  bride  is  the  desire  of  his  eyes  and  of  his  soul, 
created  on  purpose  for  his  divine  delectation. 
Apart  from  this  particular  pun,  the  paraphrast 
has  had  in  this  case  a  sinecure.    What  we  offer  is 


TRANSLATION  63 

altogether  the  work  of  the  conscientious  trans- 
lator, assisted  in  difficult  places  by  the  textual 
emender.  When  we  alter  the  picture  of  the  king 
as  Rameses  the  Great,  slaughtering  his  foes,  to  the 
extent  of  making  them  be  more  humanely 
*' stricken  in  spirit;"  we  do  but  recall  ancient 
physiological  psychologj^  which  located  the  pas- 
sions in  the  liver;  pity  and  envy  in  the  bowels; 
intellect  and  spiritual  energy  in  the  breast — par- 
ticularly the  heart — leaving  the  brain  without  as- 
certainable use  to  man.  The  same  word  is  used 
here  by  the  Psalmist  as  in  the  first  line  which  we 
rendered  "deep  stirred  is  my  spirit."  But  how 
revolutionary  is  not  the  change  our  translator  has 
here  wrought  I  We  have  now  a  true  encomiastic 
epithalamial  ode ;  and  if  it  be  taken  messianically, 
it  must  be  on  the  score  only  of  the  theme : — a  king 
greeted,  in  the  hope  of  his  realizing  the  oriental 
ideal  of  kingship, — rather  than  on  the  score  of  any 
quotable  theological  phrases.  If  ''anointed"  with 
a  "chrism"  of  gladness, — which  saves  him,  at 
least  verbally,  from  our  modern  disgust  at  the 
fate  of  Aaron's  priestly  beard; — ^he  is  not  yet  the 
Anointed,  the  "Christ,"  by  many  tokens  royal 
alike  and  human.  He  has  "sons"  in  the  stead  of 
fathers  "for  his  honor;"  and  requires  the  poet's 
praise  to  immortalize  his  name.  If  he  be  in  the 
place  of  God— "He  thy  Lord  is  and  God,"— this 
is  alone  mystically,  for  love's  sake,  to  the  bride; 
and  if  he  be  the  very  "Might  of  God,"  it  is  as 
occupant  of  a  theocratic  seat,  for  the  cause  sake 


64  TRANSLATION 

which  he  espouses : — justice,  compact  of  steadfast 
truth  and  meekness;  and  lastly,  for  his  passion- 
ate and  proud  self-appropriation  of  the  "mighty 
God"  as  indeed  his  very  own.  Still,  as  substanti- 
ating an  oriental  King-ideal,  who  would  deny  the 
hero  of  the  forty-fifth  Psalm  an  active  and  honor- 
able part  in  fashioning  the  popular  conception  of 
the  Messiah? 

It  is  not  the  translator's  fault  if  the  historical 
critic  uses  the  quite  questionable  reading  ''the 
daughter  of  Tyre"  to  identify  the  bride  with  the 
abominable  Jezabel;  and  the  praised  King  with 
the  cruel  Ahab;  neither  is  he  responsible  for  any 
possible  agreement  with  the  hopes  entertained  by 
the  disaffected,  in  connection  with  the  accession 
of  Jehu,  the  prophet-anointed  usurper.  Such  defi- 
nite and  doubtful  localizations  hinder  the  poem's 
breadth  of  application  and  depth  of  emotional  ap- 
peal; and  are,  from  the  poetical  critic's  point  of 
view,  irrelevant,  nay,  noxious  gossip ;  from  which, 
following  St.  Jerome's  reading  in  his  third  critical 
Psalm  Version,^  we  venture  to  deliver  the  pres- 
ent reader! 

But  there  are  cases  in  which  century-long  adop- 
tions of  a  particular  interpretation  have  to  be 
fought,  if  we  are  to  restore  the  integrity  of  the 
poetic  conception.  Of  such  cases  let  Psalm  twen- 
ty-three prove  a  painful  instance.  All  through 
the  poem  we  deal,  according  to  our  judgment,  only 
with  the  sheep  and  the  shepherd.     The  preceding 

1  From  the  Hebrew  text,  not  from  the  Septuagint ;  Quincuplex 
Palterium   1508,   text  edited  by   Paul  de  Legarde.      1874. 


TRANSLATION  65 

and  concluding  chorus  imply,  in  the  natural  view 
of  the  poem,  the  same  figure  as  do  the  first  two 
stanzas.  The  third  must  be  more  or  less  attracted 
to  the  remainder,  despite  *' pasture's"  possible 
meaning  of  ''feast,"  or  "stretch"  as  ''recline"  at 
a  banquet.  But  granted  the  proposed  audacity, 
and  again  we  have  no  more  what  the  commenta- 
tors gave  us:  the  conventional  feeding  unto  re- 
pleteness  and  imbibing  unto  drunkenness  at  a 
board  of  divine  plenty,  with  mysterious  enemies 
inexplicably  behind  shields,  or  across  the  conven- 
iently intervening  tables.  We  have,  instead,  a 
most  thrilling  adventure : — on  the  high  table-lands 
the  panthers  and  wolves  are  kept  off  by  the  shep- 
herd, and  the  pasture  has  been  cleared  of  poison- 
ous weeds;  the  silly  sheep,  straying  to  the  edge 
of  the  wilderness,  is  rescued  from  the  prowling 
wild  beast  in  wait  for  estrays ;  and  his  wounds  are 
tenderly  salved ;  too  faint,  however,  to  be  driven  to 
the  brook  for  refreshment,  the  divine  shepherd  has 
given  him  to  drink,  from  his  own  very  flask  in  his 
very  own  cup,  exhilarating  now  more  than  wine! 

PARAPHRASE  OF  PSALM  XXIII 

Who  unto  his  own  ever  cometh'  |  he,  my  shepherd,  nourisheth 

me 
Wherefore   (his  very  own  sheep)    |  I  shall  fail  of  no  goodly 

thing. 

In  the  green  homes  of  sprouting  young  grass  [  he  biddeth  me 

stretch  in  noon-plenty. 
To  wells  of  rest  and  refreshment   |  he  leadeth  me  by  gentle 

degrees. 
He  quickeneth  in  me  once  again  |  the  delight  and  desire  of 

life, 

'The    divine    name's   eternity    is    viewed    here    dynamically,    and 
in  motion  toward  both  himself  and  those  he  loves. 


66  TRANSLATION 

He  goeth  before  to  guide  me  |  in  straight  paths — true  to  his 

name! 

Yea,  although  to  the  hill-pass^  I  wend  |  though  gorges  by  day 

of  death-gloom, 
I  will  harbor  no  fear  at  all  |  lest  anywise  harm  may  befall  me; 
For  thou,  that  art  even  thyself,  |  art  verily  nigh  unto  me, 
Thy  staff-of-sway  and  thy  crook  |  when  I  pant,  upstay  me  with 

cheer. 

Thou  spreadest  abroad  before  me  |  my  pasture   (as  were  I 

thy  guest) 
Meetly  in  th'  immediate  sight  |  of  such  as  would  harry  and 

slay  me; 
Thou  hast  soothed  with  healing  ointment  |  my  cruelly-bruised 

head, 
And  my  cup  (thine  own,  in  my  faintness)   |  overfloweth  with 

gladness  of  heart. 

Goodness  and  mercy    (his  sheep-dogs  twain)    |    my  life-long 

surely  shall  drive  me. 
And  I  will  return  all  my  days  to  Tits  fold,  |  who  cometh  to  his 

own  forever! 

Vividly  conscious  we  are  of  the  bracketed  temer-. 
ity  in  the  last  chorus:  "goodness  and  mercy" 
visualized  as  sheep-dogs,  driving  the  sheep  to  the 
fold  again  and  again !  But  so  the  text  is  explained 
that  says  the  sheep  returns  forever  and  not 
*' abides  forever"  in  the  Lord's  house,  shed,  stable 
or  fold;  and  the  vocable  for  "drive"  (translated 
in  the  most  authoritative  dictionary  "to  dog") 
gets  its  full  hitherto  uncomprehended  force.  But, 
granted  the  temerity,  who  would  not  rather  see  in 
"goodness  and  mercy"  the  shepherd's  sheep-dogs 
than  flunkies  (as  some  prominent  scholars  would 
have  them  be)  mysteriously  driving  the  guests 
frantic  with  their  officious  attentions!  If,  how- 
ever, the  scandalized  reader  prefers  (unallured 
by  the  antivivisection  text  so  obtained)  he  may 

^A.  V:     Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death, 


TRANSLATION  67 

drop  at  will  the  paraphrastic  suggestion  and  our 
parenthesis,  and  rejoice  in  the  figure  of  the  third 
stanza  as  merely  implied  with  quiet  innocuous 
delicacy. 

There  are,  on  the  other  hand,  psalms  in  which 
the  translator  needs  but  verbal  help  from  the  par- 
aphrast,  like  the  eighth,  which  we  here  offer  for 
inspection.  True,  the  second  and  third  stanzas 
get  a  fresh  significance  in  the  contrast  of  vital 
and  inorganic  manifestations  of  God's  power; 
true,  the  line  about  the  Leviathan,  hitherto  mere 
tautology,  is  a  delightful  surprise;  and  the  ren- 
derings of  man  in  his  glory  and  in  his  humility 
(that  is,  of  the  two  Hebrew  terms  for  man,  para- 
phrased and  contrasted)  constitute  mentionable 
restorations;  true,  also,  the  ''lacking  little  to  the 
stature  of  might  that  is  God"  has  a  Swinburnian 
rhythmic  splendor,  such  as  that  poet  so  liberally 
drew  himself  from  the  Bible,  and  which  we  compel 
him  to  restore,  for  the  nonce;  true,  the  "making 
sweet  sabbath  of  rest"  to  the  hero  of  the  vendetta 
helps  much  in  comprehending  the  influence  of  the 
divine  revelation  through  the  babes  at  the  moth- 
er's breast.  But  it  is  in  no  rendering  of  a  note- 
worthy re-discovery,  or  textual  emendation,  or 
elucidation,  that  our  service  in  this  case  consists. 
After  all,  if  the  quoted  parajohrase  is  uplifting 
and  imaginatively  seizing,  this  is  due  to  the  strict 
dominance  of  every  phrase,  hemistich,  line,  stanza, 
by  the  same  one  thought,  as  was  not  the  case  in 
either  the  Authorized  or  in  the  Prayer  Book  Ver- 
sion. 


68  TRANSLATION 

PARAPHRASE   OF   PSALM  VIII 

Choric  Refrain: 

O  Thou  who  alone  art  forever,  |  O  Lord  of  us,  thine  own; 
How  high  exalted  Thy  name  and  the  truth  thereof  |  through 

the  compass  of  the  world: 


Thou,  who  hast  upreared  Thy  war-splendor  divine   |  far  over 

the  heavens 
Forth  of  the  mouths  of  babes,  ay,  sucklings,   |  hast  founded 

Thy  strength  of  life. 

So  answering  such  as  be  fain  |  with  hate  to  bind  down  and 

beset  Thee, 
So  making  sweet  Sabbath  of  rest  |   to  the  foe  and  his  kins- 
man's avenger;  — 


When  I  cast  up  my  eyes  to  Thy  heaven  ]  wrought  of  old  with 

thy  fashioning  fingers; 
The  moon  and  the  stars  whose  pathways   |  Thou,  changeless, 

hast  established  unchanging, 

Lo!   what  is  man,  the  loftiest  who  with  his  breath  ceaseth, 

I  that  thou  in  thy  thoughts  shouldest  cherish  him? 

What  is  man,  the  lowliest  child  of  the  soil,  |  woman-born,  very 

man,  that  Thou  should'st  draw  nigh  him  with  solace? 


Thou  hast  made  him  such  that  he  lacketh  but  little  |   to  the 

stature  of  might  that  is  God's, 

And  with  weight  of  worth,  and  adornment  of  grace,  [   Thou 
hast  Shielded,  crowned,  and  enwreathed  him. 

Thou  hast  caused  him  to  rule   |  over  all  Thou  hast  wrought 

with  thy  fashioning  master-hand, 
The  whole  hast  thou  bounded  and  fixed  in  its  station  |  as  foot- 
stool under  his  feet:  — 

Sheep,  ay,  and  kine,  |  all  the  flocks  and  the  herds  thereof, 
And  likewise  the  wild  beasts  also  (  that  prowl  in  the  gaping 

waste, 
The  birds  that  fly  through  the  heaven,  |  and  the  fish  that  swim 

through  the  sea. 
And  the  nameless  vast  swift-treading  the  highways  |  he  cleav- 

eth  him  through  the  great  seas. 


Choric  Refrain: 

O  Thou  who  alone  art  forever  ]  O  Lord  of  us,  thine  own, 
How  high  exalted  Thy  name  and  the  truth  thereof;   |  throu.^h- 

out  the  whole  world! 


TRANSLATION  G9 

But  in  some  instances,  moreover,  by  the  simple 
procedure  above  exemplified,  an  enormous  result 
is  effected  poetically.  "Voice  of  Adonai"  is  the 
regular  Hebrew  phrase  for  thunder.  ''Voice  of 
Yahweh"  then  carries  the  meaning  of  thunder, 
along  with  the  awfulness  of  the  greater  divine 
name.  Merely  insert,  line  after  line,  "the  thun- 
der-voice of  Yahweh"  and  hear  the  result!  Be- 
sides, there  are  two  lines  rejected  from  the  text 
by  some  editors  as  spurious  (like  the  supposedly 
redundant  "I  say  the  morning  watch"  in  the  be- 
fore quoted  Psalm  CXXX).  View  these  rather 
as  interrupting  semi-choruses,  not  perhaps  inte- 
gral parts  of  the  original  composition,  but  in- 
tended and  introduced  by  the  ritual  editor  for  aes- 
thetic relief  and  contrast :  the  God  of  Glory  thun- 
dering, yet  eternally  serene,  above  the  tempest; 
the  thunder-voice  stripping  the  forests,  yet  the 
still  small  voice  of  His  praise  in  the  secret  spirit 
of  man,  and  in  the  inherent  silences  of  the  uni- 
verse, and  now,  from  provoking  glosses,  our  two 
intrusive  lines  are  transfigured  into  h^rico-dra- 
matic  beauties  of  no  mean  order. 

PSALM  XXIX 
Orand  Chorus: 

Praise  Yahweh,  who   is  forever,    |   O  ye  sons  of  the  Powers 

divine. 
Praise  Yahweh,  who  is,  indeed,  |  for  weight  of  worth,  strength 

of  heart. 
Praise   Yahweh,   whose   yea   is   yea,    |    in   worship   His   Name 

begetteth. 
Bow  low  to  Yahweh,   alone   very  God,    |    in   holy  apparel   of 

beauty! 

The  thunder-voice  of  Yahweh  is  |  upon  the  waters  above  the 

firmament, 


70  TRANSLATION 

(Interrupting  semi-cliorus) : 

[God,  the  God  of  glory  |  uttereth  the  thunder] 
Yea,  Yahweh  Himself  upholdeth  Him  |  above  the  encompass- 
ing great  waters. 
The  thunder-voice  of  Yahweh  |  uttereth  His  creative  might, 
The  thunder-voice  of  Yahweh  |  giveth  forth  His  awful  beauty, 

The  thunder-voice  of  Yahweh  |  shattereth  the  cedar  trees, 
Yahweh,  and  He  alone,  |  doth  shiver  the  cedars  of  Lebanon, 

Lebanon  He  maketh  in  sheet-lightning  |  to  leap  like  a  young 

unicorn, 
Yea.Sirion  also  |  like  a  lusty,  fleet  bull  of  the  wilds. 

The  thunder-voice  of  Yahweh  |  heweth  the  scarped  rocks, 
Yahweh,  He  alone  heweth  |  the  rocks  with  forked  flames. 

The  thunder-voice  of  Yahweh  |  doth  make  the  barren  waste  to 

dance, 
Yahweh  alone  doth  whirl  about  |  the  barren  waste  of  Kadesh! 

The  thunder-voice  of  Yahweh  |  causeth  the  terebinth-trees  to 

writhe, 
Yahweh,  and  He  alone,   |   rippeth  and  strippeth  the  forests 

bare," 

(Interrupting  semi-chorus) : 

[Yet  in  the  mansion  of  His  Majesty  |  all  things  say  softly: 

Glory!] 

Grand  Chorus: 

Yahweh  at  the  flood  of  yore  |  did  set  aloft  His  throne, 
Yahweh  thereon  is  enthroned  ]  as  King  in  judgment  forever, 

Yahweh,  His  strength  divine  |  upon  His  own  bestoweth, 
Yahweh  bestoweth  His  blessing  |  upon  His  people,  ay,  Peace! 

In  the  forty-fifth  Psalm  the  translator  exhibited 
to  the  attentive  scrutinizer  of  his  typography  a 
somewhat  interesting  aesthetic  phenomenon,  in  the 
waxing  stanza  not  unanalogous  to  the  gradual 
swelling  or  cumulative  tripartite  "Song  of  Mir- 
iam." The  artful  stanzas  consist,  namely,  of  sub- 
stanzas  respectively:  the  first, — of  three  lines,  two 

"  A.  v. :  The  voice  of  the  Lord  maketh  the  hinds  to  bring 
forth  young,   and  discovereth  the  thick  bushes. 


TRANSLATION  71 

lines,  and  a  chorus  of  one  line ;  the  second, — of  two 
lines,  three  lines,  two,  three  (a  noteworthy  doub- 
ling the  first  stanza),  and  a  chorus  of  two  lines 
(similarly  doubling  the  first  chorus) ;  the  third, — 
of  four  lines,  of  six  lines  (doubling  the  first  stanza 
in  a  different  fashion),  and  then  one  of  three,  an- 
other of  three,  one  of  two  and  a  chorus  again  as 
before  of  two  lines.  So  strong  is  this  impression 
of  orderly  unfoldment  and  strengthening  by 
mathematical  progression,  that  one  becomes  averse 
on  this  ground  alone,  if  none  other,  to  the  ingeni- 
ous detection  and  removal  of  glosses.  Let  the 
anxious  observe  what  Dr.  Briggs  has  left  of  the 
forty-fifth  Psalm,  and  then  ask  if  the  present 
translator  is  an  iconoclast!  Perhaps  he  may  be 
a  redresser  rather  of  icons  on  idolatrous  pedes- 
tals; but  that  is  not  so  bad,  if  the  holy  icons  re- 
dressed are  actually  in  the  text  of  the  original, 
which  text  is,  whatever  its  faults,  the  best  we  are 
ever  likely  to  possess  on  earth. 

Carefully  noting,  then,  this  system  of  stanzas 
within  stanza,  we  may  sometimes  be  able  to  re- 
store a  lost  line  to  its  place,  and  produce  a  start- 
ling and  legitimate  beauty.  Psalms  forty-two  and 
forty-three  are  by  universal  consent  one  poem. 
There  is,  also,  obviously  even  for  the  reader  of 
the  authorized  version,  a  refrain  after  each  stanza. 
Strange  to  say,  in  the  second  and  third  instance, 
although  separated  by  an  unfortunate  editorial 
divorce,  the  refrain  of  the  stanzas  is  identical; 
while  in  the  first  instance  the  Hebrew  text  shows 


72  TRANSLATION 

a  small,  but  all-important  variation.  Perhaps  the 
second  stanza  opening  with  "0  my  God"  caused 
some  scribe  to  omit  God  from  the  last  place  in  the 
just  preceding  refrain.  But  if  so,  why  was  it  not 
later  on  restored!  The  omission  is  so  singular  as 
to  suggest  its  being  intentional.  Besides,  when 
we  note  the  text  as  it  stands,  a  most  audacious 
Joblike  meaning  begins  to  permeate  the  first 
stanza  by  retrospect  from  the  refrain,  which 
spreads  irresistibly  to  the  following  stanzas.  The 
Psalmist  is  faithful  but  unhappy,  with  a  sense  of 
fatal  separation  from  his  God.  In  the  North  in 
the  snowy  Hermon  summits,  to  the  East  in  the 
fertile  Jordan  valley,  ay,  and  in  the  heart  of  the 
South,  on  the  little  hill  of  Zion,"  God  seems  far 
off,  and  some  one  taunts  him  (within  his  soul,  or 
without)  nay,  many  men  taunt  him:  ''Where  is 
now  thy  God?"  View  the  troublesome  lines  in  the 
second  stanza  as  an  interrupting  chorus  (say,  of 
children) ;  observe  the  system  of  sub-stanzas  with- 
in the  stanzas;  supply  the  missing  taunt,  which 
is  cardinal  to  the  composition,  and  so  complete 
the  rhythmic  construction  of  the  third  stanza,  and 
observe  the  amazing  force  given  by  contrast  to  the 
line  following;  and  read  then  the  translation  in 
which  there  are  hardly  any  liberties  of  the  para- 
phrast  beyond  the  renderings  of  latent  meanings 
to  the  divine  name,  and  let  the  honest  literary 
reader  report  whether  or  not  there  be  gain  in  a 
purely  literary  translation  of  a  literary  master- 

*^  Usually   considered   an   unintelligible   line ! 


TRANSLATION  73 

piece,  for  the  religious,  ay,  or  even  for  the  theo- 
logical reader. 

PSALMS  XLII-XLIII 

I 

As  a  hind  that  panteth  and  yearneth  |  after  the  swift-running 

waters 
Even  so  panteth  my  soul  and  yearneth  |  after  the  God  of  great 

might! 
My  soul  is  athirst  for  th'  omnipotent  God  |  for  God  the  deep 

well-spring  of  life; 
How  long  ere  I  go  up  and  behold  |  the  countenance  of  God? 

My  own  secret  tears  are  become  |  my  stay,  yea  my  bread  day 

and  night, 

The  while  all  day  long  one  taunteth  me:    )   "Where,  pray,  is 

thy  God  of  great  might?" 

These  things  am  I  fain  to  remember  |  and  shed  forth  my  soul 

upon  me: 
How  I  led  the  multitude  solemnly  |  to  the  abode  of  the  mighty 

God, 
With    jubilant    shout    and    thanksgiving  |   in    the    blithsome 

throng  at  the  feast. 


Chorus: 

Wherefore  art  thou  thus  bowed  low,  O  my  soul,  [  and  makest 

thy  moan  over  me? 

Abide  thou  God's  time,  Who  forever  is,  |  seeing  surely  I  shall 

yet  give  him  praise 

For  the  marvelous  manifold   salvation   |    of  his  countenance, 

even  God's! 

II 

0  my  God,  my  soul  is  bowed  low  |  that  I  needs  must  remember 

thee 
From  the  land  of  Jordan  and  the  Hermon-peaks   |  yea,  even 

from  thy  lowly  hill: 
Abyss  above  shouteth  to  abyss  below  |  at  the  cry  of  thy  poured- 

forth  cataracts; 
All  thy  breaking  billows  and  rolling  waves  |  upon  7ne  do  they 

pass  over! 

(Interrupting  voices,  prohahly  of  children): 

[Day  by  day,  He  that  is  Yahweh   |   giveth  charge  to  his 

loving-kindness, 


74  TRANSLATION 

And  in  the  night-season  the  spirit  of  song,  |  even  His,  is 

with  me.] 

A  prayer,  lo,  my  prayer  [  to  the  mighty  God,  the  fount  of  my 

life: 
I  will  say   to  my  strong  God,   my   Rock,    |   why  hast  thou 

stricken  me  from  remembrance? 


Why  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  go  I   |  in  the  midst  of  the  en- 
compassing foe? 
And  with  sneers  that  shatter  my  bones  |  my  opponents  scorn- 
fully gibe  me; 
While  all  the  day  long  men  taunt  me:  |  "Where,  pray,  is  thy 

God  of  great  might?" 

Chorus: 

Wherefore  art  thou  thus  bowed  low,  O  my  soul  |  and  makest 

thy  moan  over  me? 
Abide  thou  God's  time,  Who  forever  is,  |  seeing  surely  I  shall 

yet  give  him  praise 
For  the  marvelous  manifold  salvation  |   of  thy  countenance, 

and  my  God! 
Ill 

My  judge  be  thou,  and  plead  my  plea  [  against  a  cruel  and 

impious  people, 
From  a  man  without  scruple  and  iniquitous  |  O  do  thou  help 

me  escape; 
For  thou,  thou  art  the  God  of  my  might.  [  Why  cast  me  off  as 

abominable? 
Why  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  roam  I  hither  and  thither  j  in 

the  midst  of  the  encompassing  foe? 

(While  all  the  day  long  men  taunt  me:  |  "Where,  pray,  is  thy 

God  of  great  might?") 
O  stretch  forth  thy  light  and  thy  troth  |  that  they  may  guide 

me  and  ward  me! 


To  thy  holy  hill  let  them  bring  me,  [  to  the  abiding  place  of 

That  I  may  go  in  to  the  altar  of  God,  ]  yea,  God  the  joy  of 

my  joy. 
And  I  with  the  harp  will  bless  thee,  |  O  omnipotent  God,  my 

God. 


Chorus: 

Wherefore  art  thou  thus  bowed  low,  O  my  soul,  |  and  makest 

thy  moan  over  me? 
Abide  thou  God's  time,  who  forever  is,  |  seeing  surely  I  shall 

yet  give  Him  praise 


TRANSLATION  75 

For  the  marvelous  manifold  salvation  \  of  my  countenance,  and 

my  God! 

Of  course,  our  versions  would  have  to  be  out- 
fitted with  an  elaborate  system  of  footnotes,  fol- 
lowed by  an  excursus  for  each  stanza,  and  a 
score  of  appendices  duly  bespattered  all  over  with 
Hebrew  and  Greek  letters  for  their  justification  to 
the  erudite.  In  our  defence  we  will  onlj''  adduce 
a  line  of  Emanuel  Geibel,  who  at  the  conclusion 
of  his  ^^Distichen  aus  Griechenlmid"  enumerates 
all  that  a  poet  should  be,  and  finishes  with  the 
line: 

"A'her  der  Thor  nur  verlangt  dass  ein  Gelehrter  er  set. 
(But  only  a  fool  requires  that  a  learned  pedant  he  be.) 

At  many  points,  quite  as  many  as  any  trans- 
lator, he  had  to  resolve  ambiguities,  select  be- 
tween possible  alternatives,  restore  for  probable 
corruptions  of  text;  doubtless,  although  he  had 
in  the  present  examples  of  his  industry  the  help 
of  a  scholarly  colleague,^^  he  was  no  doubt  quite 
often  in  error;  but  chiefly  from  all  sorts  of  other 
points  of  view  than  his  own!  Be  all  this  as  it 
may.  It  is  boldly  claimed  here  that  a  student  of 
literature  will,  equipped  with  such  paraphrases 
as  the  above,  go  to  other  translations  more  literal, 
greatly  helped  by  having  experienced  the  shock 
of  a  particular  interpretation  of  his  originals,  in 
swift  rhvthmic  movement,  and  with  sufficient  em- 
bodied  commentary  to  make  an  immediate  emo- 
tional understanding  of  the  poetic  compositions 
as  wholes   possible,  na}',  likelj^    To  be  sure,  the 

"Professor  Wm.   Haskell   DuBose,   M.A. 


76  TRANSLATION 

paraphrases  are  prolix  beside  the  terse  originals. 
That  is  a  quite  evident  loss,  which  has  to  be  sus- 
tained: the  sense  of  fiercely  compressed  energy. 
But  this  loss,  let  it  be  boldly  affirmed,  is  not  al- 
ways to  be  taken  seriously  as  a  defect.  Only  by 
occasional  paraphrase  can  a  translator  proceed  at 
all,  however  closely  he  strives  to  adhere  to  his 
text. 

III.    A  Practical  Theory. 

A  little  above  we  quoted  for  criticism  as  typical 
of  a  certain  school  the  impossible  theory  of  trans- 
lation brought  forward  by  Dr.  Trench  half  a  cen- 
tury ago,  in  connection  with  his  still  serviceable 
essay,  introductory  to  the  study  of  Calderon.  It 
was  not,  however,  without  amusement  that  we 
read  in  Mr.  Edward  Fitzgerald's  complete  works 
a  passage  quoted  from  a  letter  to  Dr.  Trench:  **I 
remember  that  you  regretted  having  tried  the 
asonante,  and  you  now  decide  that  prose  is  best 
for  English  translation."^  Action  and  reaction! 
From  the  strictest  sect  to  the  loosest!  Yet  such 
is  human  nature,  and  we  need  not  marvel  at  his 
antipodal  change  of  heart.  The  reader  has  but 
to  compare  Shelley  and  Fitzgerald  with  Trench 
and  MacCarthy  in  the  "Magico  Prodigioso;" 
Fitzgerald  alone  with  MacCarthy  and  Trench  in 
the  "Vida  es  Sueno/'  to  decide  whether  it  is  bet- 
ter we  should  deal  with  a  poet  as  a  poet,  and  be 
an  English  Pegasus  unto  his  Spanish  poetship; 
or  prefer  the  role  of  the  pack  ass,  transporting 

» Dated  1880 ;  the  translations,  1856. 


TRANSLATION  77 

his  exotic  provisions  and  camp  outfit,  nay,  and  his 
corpse  to  boot,  while  leaving  his  spirit  to  soar  in 
spaces  Empyrean  beyond  our  English  ken!  So 
hopelessly  bad  as  we  may  seem  to  imply,  the  case 
verily  is  not.  But  a  little  hyperbole  sometimes, 
picturesquely  jocose,  clears  the  atmosphere,  as  the 
damnatory  psalms  and  the  British  commination 
service  did  for  our  near  and  dear  forefathers  of 
blessed  memory.  *'I  am  persuaded,"  says  Fitz- 
gerald, "that  to  keep  life  in  the  Work  (as  drama 
must),  the  translator,  however  inferior  to  his 
original,  must  recast  that  original  into  his  own 
likeness,  more  or  less."^ 

Surely,  he  is  right,  and  let  us  remark  inci- 
dentally :  it  is  not  only  Drama  that  needs  to  have 
life  kept  in  it!  Fitzgerald's  ''Omar"  has  won 
both  its  author  and  translator  great  fame;  and 
the  famous  translation  of  "Omar"  was  done  on 
the  same  principle  as  the  adaptations  of  Calderon, 
only  far  more  idiosyncratically  applied.  Since,  we 
have  had  many  closer  renderings  of  the  Persian 
astronomer-poet's  stanzas,  but  I  fancy  we  shall, 
to  the  last  man  and  woman  of  us,  still  hold  on  to 
the  skirts  of  Fitzgerald,  for  all  the  insinuations  of 
the  "Variorum,"  or  the  praiseworthy  improve- 
ments of  Mr.  George  Eoe.^  It  may  be  "impu- 
dence" to  "meddle  in  so  free  and  easy  a  way 
with  a  great  man's  masterpieces,""'  but  Fitzger- 
ald did  not  fail,  as  he  feared;  for  he  actually  "con- 

'A   letter   to   James  Russell   Lowell,    1878. 

^  Ruhaiyat   of    Omar    Kli&yyam,    etc.      A.    C.    McClurg,    1906. 

*  Letter   to   R.   C.   Trench    1S65. 


78  TRANSLATION 

ciliated  English  or  modern  sympathy,"  and  per- 
formed the  miracle  of  making  Calderon  and  Omar 
into  English  and  modern  poets,  for  whom  we  shall 
thenceforth  care  to  suffer,  with  stoic  delight,  the 
labors  even  of  literal  translators :  word  for  word- 
ers,  verse  for  versers,  rhyme  for  rhymers,  pun 
for  punners,  unto  the  verbal  contortionists  and 
prestidigitators  in  the  nethermost  pit  of  unidio- 
matic  infamy! 

Quite  apart  from  the  doctrine  and  practice  of 
this  King  of  Paraj^hrasts,  and  his  follower  afar 
off  (Mr.  Richard  Le  Gallienne,  Hafiz  in  tow),  even 
the  greatest  of  translators,  is,  as  we  have  now 
stated  several  times,  by  moments  at  least,  how- 
ever, unavowedly  of  his  school.  Let  the  student 
copy  out  side  by  side  Shelley's,  Anster's,  Ha- 
ven's,'^ Swanwick's,  Martin's,  Taylor's,  Latham's 
and  Bowring's  renderings  of  the  ''Songs  of  the 
Archangels,"  with  which  opens  the  Prologue  in 
Heaven  to  Goethe's  ^^ Faust. "^  Which  of  them  is 
Goethe's  poem?  Or  for  greater  brevity,  let  the 
reader  take  the  untranslatable  last  eight  lines  of 
the  Second  Part  of  ^' Faust"  and  compare  the  re- 
sults of  translations,  and  decide  whether  he  will 
insist  on  an  identical  rhjTne-system  in  lines  so 
brief  as  to  exclude  wholly  the  element  of  para- 
phrase. 

^  Select  Minor  Poems,  translated  from  the  German  of  Goethe 
and    Schiller,    with   notes.      John    S.    Dwight,    Boston.      39. 

"  In  mentioning  archangels,  "Mr."  and  "Miss"  become  otiose 
gloriep,  that  scream  for  discreet  omission — and  so  the  euphonic 
protest  against   Arnoldian   urbanity  has   been   heeded   here. 


TRANSLATION  79 

TRANSLATION  OF  A  POEM  FROM  GOETHE 

i(l)     Alles  Vergdngliche 

1st  nur  ein  Gleichniss ; 
Das  UnzuUingliche 
Hier  loird's  Ereigniss; 
Das  unbeschreibliche 
Hier  ist  est  gethan 
Dast  Ewig  Weibliche 
Zieht  uns  hinan. 

(2)  All  we  see  before  us  passing 
Sign  and  symbol  is  alone; 

Here,  what  thought  can  never  reach  to 
Is  by  semblances  made  known; 
What  man's  words  may  never  alter, 
Done  in  act — in  symbol  shown. 
Love,  whose  perfect  type  is  woman 
The  divine  and  human  blending. 
Love,  forever  and  forever, 
Draws  us  onward,  still  ascending. 

(Anster,  '35) 

(3)  All  of  mere  transient  date 
As  symbol  showeth; 

Here  the  inadequate 

To  fulness  groweth; 

Here  the  ineffable 

Wrought  is  in  love; 

The  ever-womanly 

Draws  us   above.  (Swanwick,   '49) 

(4)  Each  thing  of  mortal  birth 
Is  but  a  type; 

What  was  of  feeble  worth 

Here  becomes  ripe! 

What  was  a  mystery 

Here  meets  the  eye; 

The  everwomanly 

Draws  us  on  high.  (Bowring,  '53) 

(5)  All  in  earth's  fleeting  state 
As  symbol  is  still  meant; 
Here  the  inadequate 
Grows  to  fulfillment, 

Here  is  wrought  the  inscrutable. 

To  silence  that  awes  us; 

Love,  eternal,   immutable, 

On,  ever  on,  draws  us.  (Martin,  '65) 


80  TRANSLATION 

(6)  All  things  transitory 
But  as  symbols  are  sent; 
Earth's  insufficiency 
Here  grows  to  event: 
The  Indescribable 
Here  it  is  done; 

The  woman-soul  leadeth  us 

Upward  and  on!  (Taylor,  70) 

(7)  Mortal  that  perishes 
Types  the  ideal, 

All  that  fault  cherishes 

Thus  becomes  real. 

Wrought  superhumanly 

Here  it  is  gone — 

The  ever-womanly 

Draweth  us  on.  (F.  H.  Hedge^) 

(8)  All  things  corruptible 
Are  but  reflection; 
Earth's  insufficiency 
Here  finds  perfection; 
Here  the  ineffable 
Wrought  is  with  love; 
The  Eternal-Womanly 

Draws  us  above.  (Latham,  '02) 

(9)  All  things  that  perish  here 
Shadow  the  ideal; 

Vain  longings  we  cherish  here, 

Lo,  they  wax  real; 

Behold  superhumanly 

Th'  ineffable  done! 

The  evermore  womanly 

Draweth  upward  and  on.  (W.  N.  G.) 

Let,  however,  one  specimen  here  adduced  make 
clear  beyond  a  doubt  and  cavil  how  hard  be  the 
ways  of  the  translator  in  this  respect. 

The  theme  is  that  of  George  Meredith's  * 'Wood- 
land Peace,"  but  the  whole  comprised  in  eight 
lines  of  such  spontaneity  and  simplicity  as  to 
baflfle  analysis.     Let  Longfellow's  translation  be 

*In  Crowell'3  edition  of  Swanwick's  Faust. 


TRANSLATION  81 

offered  the  reader  first  in  deference  to  the  en- 
gaging importer  of  poetic  cosmopolitanism: 

O'er  all  the  hill  tops 

Is  quiet  now, 
In  all  the  tree-tops 

Hearest  thou 
Hardly  a  breath; 

The  birds  are  asleep  in  the  trees; 
Wait;  soon  like  these 

Thou,  too,  Shalt  rest. 

Spilrest  du — Kaum  ernen  Hmicli  is  rendered 
with  word-for-word  fidelity — except  that  '^hear- 
est" applies  only  to  the  ear,  whereas  spilrest  in- 
cludes every  other  sense.  Furthermore  there  is 
the  very  different  emotional  value  of  the  second 
person  singular  of  verb  and  pronoun  in  the  two 
languages;  affectionately  familiar  in  German, 
stiltedly  formal  and  obsolete  in  English.  "In  the 
trees"  for  iin  Walde  repeats  the  word  of  the  third 
line,  adding  no  value  of  its  own.  "Like  these** 
makes  explicit  a  comparison  purposely  left  more 
delicately  implicit  by  Goethe;  and  rhyming  as  it 
does  with  "trees,"  "these"  might  be  mistakenly 
referred  to  them. 

But  the  worst  defect  appears  in  the  use  of  "hill- 
tops" as  equivalent  for  Gipfel;  which,  meaning 
"summit,"  could  have  a  s^nnbolic  as  well  as  a 
literal  sense,  whereas  "hilltop,"  alas,  is  strictly 
topographic ! 

Now  let  us  see  what  Aytoun  and  ^Martin  have 
done.  Two  heads  being  so  obviously  better  than 
one,  our  expectation  is  raised  for  all  the  fame  of 


82  TRANSLATION 

the  singer  of  ''Miles  Standish"  and  the  "Vacant 
Chair." 

Peace  breathes  along  the  shade 

Of  every  hill, 
The  tree-tops  of  the  glade 

Are  hushed  and  still; 
All  woodland  murmurs  cease, 

The  birds  to  roost  within  the  brake  are  gone. 
Be  patient,  weary  heart,  anon 

Thou,  too,  Shalt  be  at  peace. 

The  same  objection  as  before  can  be  urged 
against  "hill."  "All  woodland  murmurs  cease" 
merely  repeats  line  four  without  substantial  gain 
by  the  prolixity,  save  a  rhyme.  "The  birds  to 
roost"  is  for  us  Americans  quite  out  of  tune. 
Let  us  hope  this  line  is  Aytoun's  and  not  Mar- 
tin's, lest  Oehlenschlager's  and  Heine's  often  so 
felicitous  translator  suffer  hurt  in  reputation ! 

Next  let  us  see  what  Sir  Edgar  Alfred  Bowring 
has  done  for  us.  He  who  Englished  so  much  of 
Schiller  and  Goethe  surely  will  do  better  than 
others  with  this  elusive  poem ! 

Hushed  on  the  hill 

Is  the  breeze; 
Scarce  by  the  zephyr 

The  trees 

Softly  are  pressed; 
The  woodbird's  asleep  on  the  bough. 
Wait,  then,  and  thou 

Soon  will  find  rest. 

"On  the  bough  "  not  being  an  equivalent  for 
Wald,  forest,  the  Voglein  have  become  the  wood- 
bird.  This  may  pass.  "Zephyr"  idly  repeats 
"breeze;"  and  "pressed,"  for  all  it  be  negatived, 
leaves  behind  it  a  most  vexing  suggestion  that 
comes  nigh  to  annulling  the  whole  intent  of  the 


TRANSLATION  83 

poem — that  of  making  us  realize  ** peace."  But 
more  than  all,  how  has  the  large  relevancy  of 
Ueber  alien  Gipfeln  1st  Riih  been  specifically  con- 
tracted in  the  would-be  equivalent  ''Hushed  on 
the  hill  Is  the  breeze!" 

The  very  title  Em  Gleiches  baffled  our  trans- 
lators. Aytoun  and  Martin  called  the  piece 
"Evening,"  as  did  also  Sir  Edgar  Alfred  Bow- 
ring.  Longfellow  headed  it  ''The  Same," 
properly  referring  to  the  title  of  the  previous 
piece  of  kindred  feeling.  "Without  the  preceding 
piece  "the  same"  becomes  preposterous.  And 
what  pray  does  that  mean?  "What  is  the  Same? 
Here  Eossetti  helped  their  audacious  follower  to 
a  title  that  should  render  Ei7i  Gleiches,  and  make 
it  equivalent  to  "Ein  Gleiches"  in  reference  to 
the  matter  of  the  poem  itself.  Of  course  every  one 
should  know  that  its  actual  reference  is  to  the  title 
of  the  poem  that  precedes  it  in  the  original  edi- 
tion of  Goethe's  Poems,  namelv:  Wanderer's 
Nachtlied — W^ayfarer's  Evensong.  His  caption 
therefore  should  be :  "Evenso." 

EVENSO 

Hovereth  o'er  every  height 

Peace  visible; 
And  every  treetop — light 

Breathings  do  lull 
Of  dreamless  sleep; 

Birds  hush  them  in  the  brake. 

'Bide  thee,  thou  too  ere  long  shaic  take 
Thy  rest — still,  deep. 

Confessedlv  there  is  considerable  libertv  taken 

*  • 

with  the  original  in  the  last  version.    But  notli- 


84  TRANSLATION 

ing  is  wantonly  added,  not  even  ''dreamless 
sleep,"  which  helps  to  repeat  the  sentiment  of 
"peace."  And  the  ambiguous  feeling  (rather 
than  sense)  of  the  first  line  is  at  all  events  pre- 
served in: — "Hovereth  o'er  every  height,  Peace 
visible,"  mayhap  as  cloud,  as  blue  sky,  as  euthana- 
sia an  theophany,  as  the  symbolic  dove  by  Jor- 
dan's bank.  Peace  "in  bodily  shape"  somehow 
"hovereth"  and  is  above  and  nigh  and  felt  as 
Peace;  and  the  height — is  the  mere  mountain  or 
the  morally  sublime !  For  Spiirest  du  Katun  einen 
HaucJi — "Breathings  do  lull  Of  dreamless  sleep" 
' — is  a  free  amplification  to  avoid  at  a  critical 
place  the  difficult  second  person  singular,  and  se- 
cure a  surer  and  more  definite  psychological  al- 
lusion for  the  "waver  of  tree  tops." 

Has  the  present  writer  then  preserved  the  senti- 
ment of  the  original ;  though  he  has  sacrificed  the 
simple  direct  familiarity  of  style?  Does  the  cad- 
ence: "Thy  rest— still,  deep"  atone  for  the  obso- 
lete :  ' '  Bide  thee,  thou  too  " ! 

The  little  lyric  "Ueher  alien  Gipfeln"is  here  ad- 
duced, and  its  best  known  translation  cruelly  criti- 
cized, all  on  the  score  of  the  exiguous  metric  lim- 
its and  the  difficult  rhyme  system  of  the  original, 
which  preclude  paraphrase  and  natural  idiomatic 
translation.  We  venture  to  offer  for  the  read- 
er's proper  humiliation — if  he  cherish  the  heresy 
of  absolute  metric  fidelity,  etc.,  eleven  more  gay 
experim.ents  of  our  domestic  Muse,  tossing  in  air 


TRANSLATION  85 

the  Bohemian  glass  of  an  impossible  little  lyric 
by  the  great  Goethe  at  his  best. 

(1)  Ueher  alien  Gipfeln 

1st  liuh, 
In  alleii  Wipfeln 
Spurest  du 
Eaum  einen  Hauch; 
Die   Voglein  schweigen  im  Walde 
Warte  nur — halde 
RuJiest  du  auch. 

(2)  Above  every  height,  lo. 

Is  calm; 
In  treetops  light,  low 
Breatheth  the  balm 
Of  dreamless  sleep; 
Woodbirds  are  dumb:  be  still  too; 
Soon  thou  Shalt  have  thy  fill  too 
Of  peace,  calm,  deep. 

(3)  Above  every  summit. 

Peace  broods; 
What  hush  hath  o'ercome  it — 
The  gloam  of  the  woods, — 
Scarce  a  breath  aloft; 
The  wee  birds  be  silent  also; 
Soon  peace  shall  befall  so 
Thee,  too,  dream-soft. 

(4)  O'er  all  summits,  what  quiet 

For  aye! 
No  breath  doth  sigh  at 
The  topmost  spray, — 
No  murmur  to  hear; 
Hushed  are  the  woodland  thrushes: 
How  deep  the  spirit's  hush  is, — 
Thy  rest  draweth  near. 

(5)  Peace  hovers  forever 

O'er  the  height; 
In  treetops  no  waver 
To-night, 
No  breath;  Ah,  me! 
The  birds  in  the  woods  be  silent; 
Abide  but  a  little  while,  and 
Peace  visiteth  thee. 


^6  TRANSLATION 

(6)  Over  all  high  places- 

Repose! 
In  leafy  laces 

Comes  and  goes 
To  the  topmost  spray, 
No  breath  even;   the  woodbirds  are  dumb  now. 
Wait,  soon  to  thee  will  come  now 
Repose  for  aye. 

(7)  Above  all  high  places 

Calm  bides; 
In  leafy  green  spaces 
Aloft,  there  glides 
Scarce  a  breath  of  air; 
The  woodbirds  are  still:    Refrain  thee; 
Like  calm  shall  gain  thee 
Soon  aware. 

(8)  O'er  all  heights  that  are  highest 

All's  still; 
In  treetops  no  shyest 
Waking  thrill, 
No  breath  as  in  dream; 
Birds  in  the  brake  are  dumb  too:  — 
Ah,  wait, — thou  soon  wilt  come  to 
Thy  rest  supreme, 

(9)  O'er  the  heights,  forever 

Is  rest; 
Not  a  breath,  not  a  quiver 
The  tranqulllest. 
In  the  treetops  high; 
No  note  of  woodthrush  or  plover; — 
Be  quiet, — the  day  is  over — 
Thy  rest  draws  nigh. 

(10)  On  every  sheer  height  Is 

Deep  peace; 
The  breath  so  light  Is 
Nigh  to  cease, — 
In  the  tree  tops,  see! 
Woodwarblers  of  song  are  bereaven; 
Soon  peace  cometh  even 
To  thee  and  me. 

(11)  O'er  the  summits  thou  soarest. 

Still  Peace; 
To  the  tops  of  the  forest 
Wavers  cease. 


TRANSLATION  87 

Scarce  a  breath!     The  song 
Of  the  woodbirds  is  fled.     Ah,  whither? 
Like  peace  stealeth  hither 

For  thee,  ere  long. 

(12)     O'er  the  heights  hov'reth 
Deep  rest; 
Not  a  quiver  discov'reth 
Wind-caressed, 
In  the  treetops  a  breath; 
The  woodbirds  hush  thena;  Ah,  bide  thee. 
Rest  steals  beside  thee. 
And  beckoneth! 

But  if  it  be  still  contended  that  a  translated 
poem  shall  preserve  the  exact  form  of  the  original, 
number  of  lines,  metrical  system,  rime-enlacing, 
kind  of  rime  etc.,  etc.,  how  shall  this  be  in  a  piece 
like  the  one  in  question?  Feminine  rimes  are 
scarce  in  English,  and  likely  to  be  forced  and  gro- 
tesque. Admittedly  no  such  word  as  ^Gipfel'  ex- 
ists in  the  English,  'Ruh'  is  not  exactly  converti- 
ble with  either  rest,  calm  or  peace.  For  'gipfel,' 
'summit,'  'high  places,'  'sheer  height,'  the 
'heights'  are  only  equivalents.  Of  these  again 
'summit'  has  no  available  rimes;  and  even 
'places'  is  very  difficult,  requiring  a  verbal  round- 
about, unless  'green  spaces'  can  be  pressed  into 
service  to  describe  the  massed  leafage  of  the  trees, 
what  French  so  collectively  and  with  poetic  deli- 
cacy describes  as  to  "Za  ramee/'  So  our  twelve 
efforts  at  rendering  this  difficult  little  poem  are 
printed  here,  to  make  evident  that  rigid  adher- 
ence to  the  form  of  the  original  is  theoretically 
possible,  provided  always  somewhere  paraphrase 
be  permitted;  and  what  is  far  more  serious,  the 
employment   of   forced   rimes,   and   occasionally 


88  TRANSLATION 

doubtful  uses  of  words  (as  'glides'  in  tlie  seventh, 
or  'wavers'  in  the  eleventh  version),  and  broken 
constructions  (as  in  the  third,  fourth,  tenth  and 
twelfth)  be  allowed  to  pass  muster,  where  the 
original  is  a  fluid  indivisible  whole. 

Now  the  most  serious  defect  apparent  alike  in 
all  these  twelve  translations  may  as  well  be  frank- 
ly confessed,  anticipating  our  readers'  head  shake. 
Where  the  original  is  simple,  inevitable,  with  all 
the  air  of  an  improvisation,  the  twelve  versions 
are  more  or  less  stilted,  difficult,  self-conscious  and 
devoid  of  singing  lilt.  But  how  can  ease  and 
naivete  of  expression  be  obtained,  and  a  foreign 
rime  system  be  adhered  to  unaltered;  while  we 
are  constrained  to  move,  besides,  within  such  nar- 
row metrical  limits  as  to  allow  of  practically  no 
inversion  and  no  paraphrase,  that  is,  with  grace 
and  charm? 

Clearly,  the  theory  of  rigid  adhesion  to  the  form 
of  the  original  must  allow  for  exceptions  numer- 
ous and  glaring  in  proportion  to  the  lack  of  kin- 
ship between  the  languages  in  question  and  the 
singular  felicity  and  inimitable  fragility  of  lyric 
rime,  rhythm,  verbal  euphony  and  spell-power. 

IV.    A  Geeat  Teanslatoe. 

But  it  may  very  well  be  argued  that  the  writer's 
skill  and  gift  is  not  such  as  to  establish  any  argu- 
ment, whatever  his  laudable  assiduity  may  be. 
Let  us,  then,  turn  from  his  admittedly  doubtful 
experiments  above  quoted    to  the  work  beyond 


TRANSLATION  89 

cavil  of  perhaps  tlie  Kupreme  English  translator: 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  great  gift  to  our  literature, 
that  wondrous  volume  of  ''Dante  and  His  Cir- 
cle," enabling  us  all  to  estimate  the  value  of  the 
poetry  our  most  inspired  forefathers  loved,  and 
endeavored  to  emulate,  from  Chaucer  to  Sidney 
and  Spenser.  Considerable  as  may  have  been  at 
times  the  influence  of  old  France,  that  of  Italian 
poetry  was  uninterraittent  and  greatly  for  good. 
Not  blindly  adoring  would  we  seem,  but  deeply 
thankful.  We  are,  indeed,  enabled  at  times  to 
criticize  Rossetti 's  work,  enjoying  the  advantage 
of  comparison  with  other  translations.  Compare, 
for  instance,  Dante's  ''Sonnet  to  Guido  Cova- 
clanti"  in  Shelley's  version  with  Rossetti 's.  The 
last  lines  of  the  octave  trouble  both  translators. 

Ami  vivendo  sempre  in  un  talento 

Di  star  insieme  crescesse  il  desio. 

But  we,  observing  old  companionship. 

To  be  companions  still  should  long  thereby. 

Surely  Shelley  wins  the  honors  with 

That  even  satiety  should  still  enhance 
Between  our  hearts  their  strict  community. 

But  most  striking  is  Rossetti 's  rendering  of  the 
second  line  in  the  sestet: 

And  her  the  thirtieth  on  my  roll, 

marring,  for  English  readers  with  unintelligible 
fidelity,  the  poem  as  such.  Shelley  paraphrases 
this  obscure  reference  to  a  list  of  bvffone  beauties, 
"and  my  gentle  love"  erring,  only  in  the  person 


do  TRANSLATION 

of  the  possessive  pronoun  ''my"  for  "thy."    On 

the  other  hand, 

E  quivi  ragionar  sempre  d'amore, 

is  certainly  better  rendered: 

And  not  to  talk  of  anything  but  love, 

by  Eossetti;  than  by  Shelley  in  his  pointless 
phrase  ''with  passionate  talk."  Yet  again,  the 
last  line: 

Siccome  io  credo  che  sariamo  noi, 

is  more  lyrically  fluid  in  Shelley's: 

As  I  believe  that  thou  and  I  should  be, 

than  in  Eossetti 's — 

As  we  should  be,  I  think,  If  this  were  thus. 

How  one  wishes  that  Eossetti  had  followed  up 
this  generous  gift  of  ' '  Dante  and  His  Circle ' '  with 
a  Divine  Comedy,  that  should  forever  naturalize 
the  mature  genius  of  the  great  Dante  in  Eng- 
land's and  America's  Helicon!  That  this  is  no 
mere  pious  wish  founded  on  devout  ignorance  of 
rival  claims,  let  a  comparison  attest  in  the  crucial 
passage  (lines  112  to  142)  of  Canto  V  in  the  ''In- 
ferno." It  is  the  well-known  narrative  concern- 
ing Paolo  and  Francesco's  love  and  death  and 
doom.  And  here,  to  save  space,  let  us  fix  our  at- 
tention exclusively  on  the  four  most  remarkable 
and  famous  morsels  from  the  great  passage: 

0  lasso! 
(1)  Quanti  dolci  pensier,  quanta  desio 

Meno  costoro  al  doloroso  passo! 
Alas,  how  many  sweet  thoughts,  how  great  desire,  led  these 
unto  the  woeful  pass.  (Norton's  prose.) 


TRANSLATION  91 

Ah,  me!  what  sweet  thoughts,  what  longing  led  them  to  the 
woeful  pass!  (Gollancz,  prose  by  terzets.) 

Alas!  by  what  sweet  thoughts,  what  fond  desire 
Must  they  at  length  to  that  ill  pass  have  reached! 

(Carey,  blank  verse.) 

Alas! 
How  many  pleasant  thoughts,  how  much  desire 
Conducted  them  unto  the  dolorous  pass! 

(Longfellow,  blank  verse.) 

Alas!  unto  such  HI 
How  many  sweet  thoughts,  what  strong  ecstasies 
Led  these  their  evil  fortune  to  fulfil! 

(Byron,  "terza  rima.") 

Alas! 
All  their  sweet  thoughts  then,  all  the  steps  that  led 
To  love,  but  brought  them  to  this  dolorous  pass. 

(Leigh  Hunt,  terza  rima) 

Ah,  Woe! 
What  sweet  fond  thoughts,  what  passionate  desire 
Led  to  the  pass  whence  such  great  sorrows  flow! 

( Plump tre,  terza  rima) 

Alas! 
How  many  sweet  thoughts  and  how  much  desire 
Led  those  two  onward  to  the  dolorous  pass! 

(Rossettl) 

(2)     Ma  dimmi,  al  tempo  de'  dolcl  sosplrl 
A  che  e  come  concedette  amore 
Che  conosceste  1  dubbiosi  desiri. 
But  tell  me  at  the  time  of  the  sweet  sighs  by  what  and  how 
did  love  concede  to  you  to  k7iow  the  dubious  desires? 

(Norton) 

But  tell  me:  in  the  time  of  the  sweet  sighs  by  what  and  how 
love  granted  you  to  know  the  dubious  desires?     (Gollancz) 

But  tell  me  In  the  time  of  your  sweet  sighs, 

By  what,  and  how  love  granted  that  ye  knew 

Your  yet  uncertain  wishes?  (Carey) 

But  tell  me  at  the  time  of  those  sweet  sighs 

By  what   and   in   wiiat  manner  love  conceded. 

That  you  should  know  your  dubious  desires.     (Longfellow) 


92  TRANSLATION 

But  tell  me,  in  the  season  of  sweet  sighs, 

By  what  and  how  thy  love  to  passion  rose, 

So  as  his  dim  desires  to  recognize?  (Byron) 

But  tell  me,  at  the  time  when  sighs  were  sweet, 

What  made  thee  strive  no   longer; — hurried   thee 

To  the  last  step  where  bliss  and  sorrow  meet?  (Hunt) 

But  tell  me  in  the  time  of  those  sweet  sighs, 
The  hour,  the  mode  in  which  love  led  you  on 
Doubtful  desires  to  know  with  open  eyes.  (Plumptre) 

But  tell  me  the  season  of  sweet  sighs, 

When  and  what  way  did  love  instruct  you  so 

That  he  in  your  vague  longings  made  you  wise?   (Rossetti) 

(3)     Nessunmaggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria;  e  cio  sa  il  tuo  dottore. 

There  is  no  greater  woe  than  in  misery  to  remember  the 
happy  time,  and  that  thy  teacher  knows.  (Norton) 

There  is  no  greater  pain  than  to  recall  a  happy  time  In 
wretchedness:   and  this  thy  teacher  knows.  (Gollancz) 

No  greater  grief  than  to  remember  days 

Of  joy,  when  misery  is  at  hand.    That  kens 

Thy  learn'd  instructor.  (Carey) 

There  is  no  greater  sorrow 

Than  to  be  mindful  of  the  happy  time 

In  misery,  and  that  thy  teacher  knows.  (Longfellow) 

The  greatest  of  all  woes 
Is  to  remind  us  of  our  happy  days 
In  misery,  and  that  thy  teacher  knows.  (Byron) 

There  is  no  greater  sorrow  (answered  she) 

And  this  thy  teacher  here  knoweth  full  well, 

Than  calling  to  mind  joy  in  misery.  (Hunt) 

A  greater  grief  is  none 
Than  to  remember  happier  seasons  past 
In  anguish;  this  thy  teacher  well  hath  known.    (Plumptre) 

There  is  no  greater  woe 
Than  the  remembrance  brings  of  hi-^py  (\"Z'Z 
In  misery;  and  this  thy  guide  doth  know.  (Rossetti) 


TRANSLATION  93 

(4)     Quando  legemmo  il   disiato  riso 
Esser  baciato  da  cotanto  amante, 
Questi,  che  mai  de  me  non  fia  diviso, 
La  bocca  mi  bacid  tutto  tremante. 

When  we  read  of  the  longed-for  smile  being  kissed  by  such 
a  lover,  this  one,  never  from  me  shall  be  divided,  kissed 
my  mouth   all   trembling.  (Norton) 

When  we  read  how  the  fond  smile  was  kissed  by  siich  a 
lover,  he  who  shall  never  be  divided  from  me,  kissed  my 
mouth  all  trembling.  (Gollancz) 

When  of  that  smile  we  read, 

The  wished  smile  so  rapturously  kissed 

By  one  so  deep  in  love,  then  he,  who  ne'er 

From  me  shall  separate,  at  once  my  lips 

All  trembling  kissed.  (Carey) 

When  as  we  read  of  the  much  longed-for  smile 

Being  by  such  a  noble  lover  kissed 

This  one,  who  ne'er  from  me  shall  be  divided, 

Kissed  me  upon  the  mouth  all  palpitating.     (Longfellow) 

When  we  read  the  long-sigh' d-f or  smile  of  her, 
To  be  thus  kiss'd  by  such  devoted  lover, 
He  who  from  me  can  be  divided  ne'er 
Kiss'd  my  mouth,  trembling  in  the  act  all  over. 

(Byron) 

'Twas  where  the  lover,  mothlike  in  his  flame 

Drawn  by  her  stveet  smile,  kissed  it.     O  then  he 

Whose  lot  and  mine  are  now  for  aye  the  same 

All  in  a  Tremble  on  the  mouth  kissed  me.  (Hunt) 

When  as  we  read  how  smile  long  sought  for  flushed 

Fair  face  at  kiss  of  lover  so  renowned, 

He  kissed  me  on  my  lips,  as  impulse  rushed. 

All  trembling;  now  with  me  for  aye  is  bound.    (Plumptre) 

For  when  we  read  of  that  great  lover,  how 

He  kissed  the  smile  which  he  had  longed  to  ivin. 

Then  he  whom  naught  can  sever  from  me  now 

Forever,  kissed  my  mouth  all  quivering.  (RossettI) 

How  (ioes  not  the  closeness  of  the  prose  suggest 
at  times  the  strait-jacket?  How  does  not  Hunt, 
the  irresponsible,  paraphrase  altogether  at  times 


94  TRANSLATION 

too  recklessly?  How  does  not  the  stalwart  Plum- 
tre  fail  utterly  in  the  fourth?  And  how  always 
adequate  and  frequently  brilliant  is  not  Rossettil 
But  it  may  be  contended  that  Rossetti  was  so 
peculiarly  consecrated  to  the  service  of  Dante  as 
to  make  such  a  comparison  unfair.  Let  us  turn, 
then,  to  his  version  from  Villon,  and  note  the  co- 
incidence here,  also,  and  in  greater  degree  of 
translator  and  paraphrast ;  the  latter,  always  only 
appearing  for  desperate  rescue  of  the  former,  or 
for  the  divine  miracle  that  transfigures,  through 
revisualization  of  the  first  poet's  inspiring  vision, 
the  mere  translation  into  a  new  original  poem  by 
the  original  poet  in  the  translator's  language.  So 
we  glance  first  at  ''The  Ballade  of  Dead  Ladies" 
where  we  have  three  other  good  translations  con- 
veniently to  hand  for  comparison:  Miss  Castel- 
lo's,  Mr.  John  Payne's  and  Mr.  Andrew  Lang's.^ 
First  let  us  consider  the  refrain,  that  most  critical 
of  all  lines  in  a  ballade: 

Mais  ou  sont  les  neiges  d'antan! 

Where   is   fled   the    South   wind's   snow?  (Castello) 

But  what   is  become  of  last  year's   snow?  (Payne) 

But  where  is  the  last  year's  snow?  (Lang) 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yesteryear?  (Rossetti) 

What  a  felicity  is  not  this  last!  Next,  let  us 
view  the  opening  lines,  only  less  critical  for  the 
beauty  of  the  ballade : 

Dictes-moi  ou,  n'en  quel  pays 
Est  Flora,  la  belle  Romaine. 

*L..  S.  Castello's  specimens  of  the  Early  Poetry  of  France, 
London,  1885,  freely  quoted  in  Longfellow's  "Poets  and  Poetry 
of    Europe." 

"Ballades  and  Verses  Vain."     Andrew  Lang,   Scribner   1884. 

"The  Poems  of  Master  Frangois  Villon,"  John  Payne,  Thomas 
Mosher,    1900. 


TRANSLATION  95 

Tell  me  to  what  region  flown 

Is  Flora,  the  fair  Roman  gone.  (Castello) 

Tell  me  where,  in  what  land  of  shade. 

Bides  fair  Flora  of  Rome,  and  where.  (Payne) 

Nay,  tell  me  now  in  what  strange  air 

The  Roman  Flora  dwells  to-day.  (Lang) 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  Is 

Lady  Flora,  the  lovely  Roman?  (Rossetti) 

Often  has  this  opening  been  deservedly  praised. 
But  let  the  student  persevere  in  the  comparison, 
and  it  is  a  temptation  too  strong  for  us  to  bring 
out,  here  and  now,  the  difficult  lines  concerning 
the  *' beatified  maid:" 

Et  Jehanne,  la  bonne  Lorraine, 
Ou  'Anglois  bruslerent  a  Rouen; 
Oil  sont  lis,  Vierge  Souveralne? 

Where  is  Joan,  whom  English  flame 

Gave,  at  Rouen,  death  and  fame? 

Where  are  all?     Does  any  know?  (Castello) 

And  Joan  the  Maid, 
The  good  Lorralner,  the  English  bare 
Captive  to  Rouen  and  burned  her  there; 


Where  are  they,  Virgin  debonair?  (Payne) 

Good  Joan,  whom  English  did  betray 
In  Rouen  town  and  burned  her?  No, 
Maiden  and  Queen,  no  man  may  say:  (Lang) 

And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 

At  Rouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there, — 

Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then?  (Rossetti) 

Once  again  it  may  be  objected  that  this  particu- 
lar piece  of  translation  is  an  original  inspiration 
of  Rossetti 's.  Very  well,  and  so  be  it.  The  point 
of  the  present  writer  is  exactly  that  Eossetti  had 
just  such  inspirations  in  an  almost  continuous  se- 


96  TRANSLATION 

Ties.  The  ballade  made  by  Villon  at  his  mother's 
request  troubles  Rossetti  no  little  by  such  ultra 
orthodox  terms  as  ''sin"  and  "sinner,"  which  he 
periphrastically  avoids,  as  suggestive  in  English 
of  a  nasal  tone.  There  is  a  difficulty,  too,  in  the 
poem's  stress  on  trans-substantiation,  and  the 
Virgin  birth,  which  to  an  English  ear  seems 
strange,  and  perchance  {mirabile  dictu)  indeli- 
cate :  Hence,  a  reconception  of  the  last  four  lines 
in  the  second  stanza ;  which  is,  we  cannot  but  think, 
more  effective  than  a  direct  translation  must  al- 
ways turn  out  to  be  in  this  particular  case : 

Preservez  moy,  que  point  je  ne  face  ce; 
Vierge  portant,  sans  rompure  encourir, 
Le  sacrement  qu'on  celebre  a  la  messe. 
En  ceste  foi  je  vueil  vivre  et  mourir. 

Assoilzie  me,  that  I  may  have  no  teen. 

Maid,  that  without  breach  of  Virginity 

Didst  bear  our  Lord  that  in  the  Host  is  seen. 

In  this  belief  I  will  to  live  and  die.  (Payne) 

Oh,  help  me  lest  in  vain  for  me  should  pass 

(Sweet  Virgin  that  shalt  have  no  loss  thereby!) 

The  blessed  Host,  and  sacring  of  the  Mass. 

Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die,     (Rossetti)' 

Let,  however,  in  all  candor,  the  comparison  of 
the  entire  ballade  be  instituted,  and  there  can  re- 
main little  doubt  of  Mr.  Rossetti 's  superiority,  al- 
though Mr.  Payne  knows  his  old  French  better, 
and  strives  honestly  enough  for  archaic  atmos- 
phere in  English,  and  fails  not  to  achieve,  on  the 
whole,  a  level  of  craftsmanship  surpassed  only 
perhaps  by  two  or  three  English  translators  of 
very  modern  times. 

'  In  translating  Villon,  Swinburne  alone  seems  to  be  Rossettl's 
peer. 


TRANSLATION  97 

But  wliat  we  have  been  at  such  great  pains  to 
exhibit,  namely:  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti's  great 
eminence  as  a  translator  has  for  us  at  present 
only  this  primary  importance,  namely,  that  he, 
our  greatest  translator,  is  paraplirast  not  for  con- 
venience sake,  but  from  linguistic  and  aesthetic 
necessity,  a  goodly  part  of  the  time ;  and  that  par- 
aphrase, if  poetically  legitimate,  does  not  consti- 
tute a  mere  detached  periphrasis  of  an  untrans- 
latable phrase,  but  is  the  result  of  fresh  visuali- 
zation of  the  original  poet's  vision,  so  that  the  al- 
tered expression  is  as  legitimate  a  product  of  tho 
first  vital  idea  of  the  poem,  as  that  for  which  it 
becomes  an  inevitable  substitute. 

V.    A  Curious  Instance. 

Now,  for  the  proof  of  this  proposition,  we  have 
a  most  interesting  illustration,  which  will,  for 
readers  steeped  in  mere  textual  criticism  long 
wonted  to  the  quite  mechanical  hanging  of  master- 
pieces on  mere  circumstantial  evidence,  border  on 
the  incredible  and  occult!  Antoine-Vincent  Ar- 
nault^«  wrote  after  the  Battle  of  Waterloo  a  lit- 
tle elegy  in  parable  form  to  the  Princess  Hor- 
tense,  in  which  Napoleon  is  the  oak,  storm- 
stricken;  Arnault  the  wind-driven  leaf,  and,  at 
the  end,  the  laurel  leaf;  Hortense  the  petal  of 
the  rose.  Leopardi  liked  the  little  poem,  but 
either  was  not  aware  of  the  original  allusions,  or 
ignored  them  wilfully.    Be  that  as  it  may,  he  omit- 

"1766-1834. 


98  TRANSLATION 

ted,  in  translating,  the  three  passages  italicized  in 
the  French  and  introduced  the  words  and  phrases 
italicized  in  the  Italian,  entitling  his  derivative 
poem,  ^^Imitazione." 

LA  FEUILLE. 

De  ta  tige  detach^e, 

Pauvre  feuille  dessecMe. 

Ou  vas-tu?  Je  n'en  sais  rien. 

L'orage  a  hrise  le  chdne 

Qui  seul  6tait  mon  soutien. 

De  son  inconstante  haletne, 

Le  zephyr  ou  V  quilon 

Depuis  ce  jour  me  promene 

De  la  foret  h  la  plaine, 

De  la  montagne  au  vallon. 

Je  vais  od  le  vent  me  m6ne, 

Sans  me  plaindre  ou  m'effrayer: 

Je  vais  ou  va  toute  chose. 

Oil  va  la  feuille  de  rose 

Et  la  feuille  de  laurier.       (Arnault.  '15) 

IMITAZIONE 

Lungi  dal  proprio  ramo, 

Povera   foglia   frale, 

Dove  vai  tu?    Dal  faggio 

La  dov'io  nacqui,  mi  divise  11  vento. 

Esse,  tornando,  a  volo 

Dal  bosco  alia  campagna, 

Dalla  valle  mi  porta  alia  montagna. 

Vo  pellagrina.  e  tutto  Valtro  ignoro. 

Vo  dove  ogni  altra  cosa, 

Dove  naturalmente 

Va  la  folgia  di  rosa, 

E  la  folgia  d'alloro.     (Leopardi.     '31-'35) 

Now  it  is  most  noteworthy  that  *'frale"  (frag- 
ile) for  dessechee"  (withered),  "pellegrina"  (a 
pilgrim,  wanderer)  and^'porta"  (carries)  for ''me 
promene"  (drives  me),  increase  the  universal  pa- 
thetic applicability  with  a  deepened  sense  of 
frailty  and  fatality.    The  loss  of  the  storm,  on  the 


TRANSLATION  09 

contrary,  that  breaks  the  oak/^  the  substitution  of 
the  brief  "tornado"  (turning)  for  ''inconstantc 
haleine,  le  zephyr  ou  I'aquilon  "  (intermittent 
breath,  the  zepliyr  or  the  winter  wind),  makes  the 
objective  reality  less  vivid  and  dramatic.  The 
most  important  change,  however,  is  the  substitu- 
tion of  ''tutto  I'altro  ignoro"  (all  else  I  know 
not),  intimating  an  agnostic  desi:)air,  instead  of 
*'Je  n'en  sais  rien,"  at  the  beginning  of  the  leaf's 
reply,  which  merely  denied  knowledge  of  its  des- 
tined direction.  "Sans  me  plaindre  on  me'ef- 
frayer"  insinuated  a  militant,  stoic  feeling,  which 
is  out  of  keeping  with  Leopardi's  sentimental  doc- 
trine of  humanitarianism,  based  on  pessimism: 
and  "Seco  perpetuamente"  (forever  with  the 
wind)  and  "naturalmente"  (by  course  of  nature's 
law)  added  to  the  whither  of  all  things,  makes  the 
pessimism  absolute  and  philosophically  neces- 
sary. 

Rightly,  to  be  sure,  did  Leopardi  omit  any  ref- 
erence to  Arnault's  jooem  in  the  title  of  his  piece. 
Too  great  and  true  a  poet  was  he  to  suppose  his 
Iniitazione  any  fair  equivalent  of  La  Feuille. 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  Dante  Gabriel  Ros- 
setti  read  and  was  drawn  to  Leopardi's  poem. 
It  set  him  to  musing,  and  finally,  to  versifying, 
with  the  result  of  "The  Leaf;"  which  we  print 
with  all  departures  from  the  Italian  italicized: 

i-In  Leopardi  chine  become  faggio  (beech)  instead  of  querela, 
probably  because  of  difference  in  sentiment  (pathos,  instead  of 
stoic  valor)  ;  and  the  English  love  of  the  oak  restored  the  orig- 
inal   tree    chosen    as    Jove's,    and    therefore   Napoleon's. 


100  TRANSLATION 

THE  LEAF 

Tom   from   your   parent   bough, 
Poor  leaf  all  withered  now. 

Where  go  you?     "/  cannot  tell. 
Storm  stricken  is  the  oak-tree 

Where  I  grew,  whence  I   fell. 
Changeful  continually, 

The  zephyr  and  hurricane 
Since  that  day  bid  me  flee 
From  deepest  woods  to  the  lea, 

From  highest  hills  to  the  plain. 
Where  the  wind  carries  me 

I  go  tvithout  fear  or  grief: 
I  go  whither  each  one  goes; 
Thither  the  leaf  of  the  rose, 

And  thither  the   laurel-leaf."   ('69-73) 

IMITAZIONE 

Lungi  dal  proprio  ramo, 

Povera  foglia   frale, 

Dove  vai  tu?    Dal  faggio 

La  dov'io  nacqui,  mi  divise  il  vento. 

Esso,  tornando,  a  volo 

Dal  bosco  alia  campagna, 

Dalla  valle  mi  porta  alia  montagna. 

Vo  pellagrina,  e  tutto  I'altro  ignoro. 

Vo  dove  ogni  altra  cosa, 

Dove  naturalmente 

Va  la  foglia  de  rosa, 

E   la   foglia   d'alloro.  (Leopard!) 

Note  that  **Dov'  io  nacqui"  (where  I  was  born) 
is  represented  above  by  "parent,"  inapplicable, 
of  course,  to  Napoleon.  * '  Perpetuamente  "  (per- 
petually) is  properly  transferred  from  the  flight 
to  the  changefulness  of  the  wind,  as  ''continu- 
ally." The  feeling  of  "pellegrina"  (pilgrim)  is 
excluded.  Tlie  agnosticism  of  ** tutto  I'altro  ig- 
noro" disappears;  and  also  the  scientific  fatalism 
of  ''naturalmente."  On  the  other  hand,  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  storm  reappears,  and  along 
with  it  the  stoic  refusal  to  complain  or  cherish 
fear. 


TRANSLATION  101 

THE  LEAF 

Torn   from   your   parent  bough. 
Poor  leaf  all  withered   now, 

Where  go  you?     "/  cannot  tell. 
Storm   stricken   is   the   oak-tree 

Where   I   grew,  whence  I   fell. 
Changeful  continually. 

The  zephyr  and  hurricane 
Since  that  day  bid  me  flee 
From   deepest  woods  to  the  lea. 

From  highest  hills  to  the  plain. 
Where  the  wind  carries  me 

I  go  without  fear  or  grief: 
I  go  whither  each  one  goes; 
Thither  the  leaf  of  the  rose. 

And  thither  the  laurel-leaf." 

LA  FEUILLE 

Da  ta  tige  detach§e, 
Pauvre  feuille   dess6ch6. 
Ou  vas-tu?    Je  n'en  sais  rien. 
L'orage  a  hrisd  le  ch^ne 
Qui  seul  6tait  mon  soutien. 
De  son  inconstante  haleine 
Le  zephyr  ou  Vaquilon 
Depuis  ce  jour  me  promdne 
Da  la  foret  h  la  plaine 
De  la  montagne  au  vallon. 
Je  vais  oil  le  vent  me  mfene. 
Sans  me  plaindre  on  m'effrayer: 
Je  vais  oO  va  toute  chose 
Oil  va  la  feuille  de  rose 
Et  la  feuille  de  laurier. 

Corroborative  evidence  for  our  interesting  con- 
tention may  be  had  by  comparing  German  trans- 
lations respectively  of  "La  Feuille'*  and  of  "Imi- 
tazione."  But  the  English  reader  may  be  grate- 
ful to  us  if  we  subjoin  for  his  convenience  a  trans- 
lation somewhat  loose  of  Leopardi's  poem  by 
Frederick  Townsend,  for  comparison  with  Ros- 
setti^s  resuscitation  of  the  original. 


102  TRANSLATION 

IMITATION  " 

Wandering  from  the  parent  bough, 

Little,  trembling  leaf. 

Whither  goest  thou? 

"From  the  beech  where  I  was  bom. 

By  the  north  wind  was  I   torn. 

Him  I  follow  in  his  flight, 

Over  mountain,  over  vale, 

From  the  forest  to  the  plain. 

Up  the  hill,  and  down  again, 

With  him  ever  on  the  way. 

More  than  that  I  cannot  say. 

Where  I  go  must  all  things  go. 

Gentle,  simple,  high  and  low, 

Leaves  of  laurel,  leaves  of  rose; 

Whither,  Heaven  only  knows!"   ('87) 

Now  we  hesitated  to  utilize  this  extraordinary 
instance  of  a  peep  into  the  translator's  workshop, 
merely  on  the  evidence  of  editions,  or  the  explicit 
note  even  of  the  editor  of  the  authorized  edition. 
In  reply  to  an  inquiry,  a  valuable  communication 
was  obtained  from  Mr.  William  Michael  Eossetti, 
which  we  print  in  an  appendix.  He  substantiated 
what  had  been  gathered  from  the  authorized  edi- 
tion, but  seemed  somewhat  alarmed  at  the  refer- 
ence in  the  letter  of  inquiry  to  his  brother's  gift 
of  visualization.  These  are  days  of  strange  doc- 
trine. No  wonder  Mr.  Eossetti  waxed  suspicious, 
reading  the  cabalistic  words  ''gift  of  visualiza- 
tion!" True,  both  he  and  his  brother  honored 
"William  Blake,  but  that  was  ere  Blavatzkiism, 
Babism,  Eddyism  and  popular  misapplications  of 
Psychic  Eesearch  had  made  the  atmosphere  un- 
pleasant for  merely  literary  and  disinterested 
mystics. 

''-Poems   of    Giacomo    Leopardi.     Translated   by    Fred.   Townsend. 
Putnams,   1887.     Thirty-eight  Poems. 


TRANSLATION  103 

Well,  if  the  letter  which  we  reprint  in  full  bears 
conclusive  testimony,  there  is  but  one  theory  be- 
fore us;  namely,  that  Rossetti  did  with  Leopardi's 
poem  just  what  Leopardi  had  done  with  Ar 
nault's;  this  difference  only  obtaining,  that  Leo- 
pardi philosophized.  Consequently,  in  every  case 
of  change  from  Leopardi 's  poem,  Rossetti  returned 
unconsciously  to  Arnault's  apologue;  not  certainly 
because  of  any  supernatural  persistence  of  the 
original  poem,  mystically  suggesting  itself  ghost- 
wise  to  the  third  poet ;  but  simply  because  the  ele- 
ments Rossetti  omitted  were  philosophic  and  un- 
dramatic,  and  those  he  introduced  into  his  sup- 
posed original  were  dramatic  and  sensuously  im- 
aginative and  natural  to  the  primary  conception. 

Now  Rossetti  did  not  totally  restore  the  original 
poem.  Slight  vestiges  remain  of  Leopardi  in 
* '  parent, "  "  carries  me, " ' '  changeful. "  * '  Each  one 
goes''  is  an  infelicity,  due  to  the  difficulty  of 
poeticaly  rendering  *'ogni  altra  cosa"  (every- 
thing besides)  which  rationally  particularized  a 
little  in  Leopardi  on  the  *'toute  chose"  (every- 
thing) of  the  original. 

Clearly  Rossetti  did  not  know  the  story  of  Ar- 
nault's poem  at  the  time  he  made  his  translation, 
whatever  may  have  been  the  case  at  some  later 
date.  For  certainly  he  could  not  have  credited 
Leopardi  with  furnishing  him  the  original,  had  he 
known  Arnault's  poem;  and  much  less,  had  he 
known  it,  could  he  have  thought  it  a  translation 
of  the  Italian,  when  he  found  himself  persistently 


104  TRANSLATION 

preferring  the  supposed  translation  to  the  sup- 
posed original,  in  every  departure  from  the 
same.  Turn  the  matter  over  and  over  again,  how- 
ever the  reader  sceptical  in  matters  aesthetic  may 
do,  the  stubborn  fact  remains  that  Rossetti  re- 
stored almost  absolutely  from  a  translation  an 
original  poem  which  he  did  not  Jcnoiv  existed, 
merely  because,  when  translating,  Rossetti  ren- 
dered conception  by  conception,  not  phrase  by 
phrase;  nay,  in  fact,  before  he  rendered  any  cou- 
ception  whatever,  reconceived  and  recomposed 
and  livingly  reconstructed  the  whole  in  his  mind, 
and  then  alone  addressed  himself  to  translating 
conception  by  conception  with  such  liberties  as  the 
visualized  whole  seemed  to  warrant  or  suggest. 
And  this  we  would  maintain  is  but  a  most  striking 
exemplification  of  the  process  of  true  transla- 
tion.^^ 

VI.      THE  MAIN  CONTENTION. 

If  the  point  we  have  endeavored  to  establish 
(for  which  we  make  no  claims  to  original  discov- 
ery) be  accepted  in  good  faith,  then  it  will  indeed 
be  difficult  to  refuse  acceptance  of  the  further 
contention  of  this  paper,  namely :  that  translation 
offers  a  pedagogical  method  for  the  teaching  of 
literature  as  an  art. 


"  The  second  letter  of  Mr.  Rossetti,  In  response  to  further 
more  explicit  Inquiry,  does  much  to  support  the  views  here  ex- 
pressed, and  those  implied  as  their  background,  although  it  takes 
issue  with  us  mistakenly,  we  cannot  but  think,  in  the  matter  of 
the  detail  analysis  of  Rossetti's  Leaf.  Mr.  Rossetti,  however, 
had  only  a  letter  and  not  this  present  detailed  statement  before 
him   of   the   three   poems    and   their   relations. 


TRANSLATION  105 

It  is  indeed  pleasant  to  reflect  that  in  urging  the 
formation  of  graduate  schools  for  teaching  the 
Art  of  Translation  at  our  Universities,  we  should 
be  carrying  out  the  suggestions  of  that  first  great 
American  teacher  of  Literature,  Henry  "Wads- 
worth  Longfellow,  who,  in  his  "Poets  and  Poetry 
of  Europe,"  pointed  us  the  way  to  a  cosmopoli- 
tan culture,  and  what  is  more,  set  us  the  brave  ex- 
ample, seeking  not  originality  and  priority  of  de- 
vising, like  a  Poe,  or  a  Whitman ;  ambitious  mere- 
ly of  a  sane,  large-hearted  recreation  of  things 
positively  known  to  be  beautiful ;  and  the  produc- 
tion, then,  of  such  things,  as  should  bear  lovely 
likeness  to  them,  out  of  materials  that  offer  them- 
selves to  the  cultured  artist  on  our  continent,  and 
at  home  in  our  special  civilization  and  nation.^* 

Yes,  the  poetry  of  Longfellow  may  suffer  from 
the  limitations  of  his  individual  genius,  from  his 
involvement  in  an  ephemeral  phase  of  the  Ro- 
mantic movement,  from  his  appearance  too  early 
in  our  cultivation  of  aesthetic  self-confidence ;  but 
the  gracious  catholicity  of  his  spirit,  his  modest 
avocation  to  the  translator's  self-denying  but 
most  cultivating  and  satisfying  art, — these,  at  all 
events  (whatsoever  may  befall  his  poetic  fame), 
are  to  be  our  inheritance  forever  as  a  people,  and 

"  We  would  not  be  supposed  wholly  unappreclative  of  Poe's 
verse  technique,  much  less  of  WTiitman's  very  important,  though 
not  clearly  understood,  discoveries  in  poetic  composition.  The 
Intention  is  only  to  vindicate  Longfellow  from  the  silly  charges 
of  plagiarism,  and  the  unfortunate  but  natural  reaction  from  an 
enthusiastic  overpraise  which  made  a  sane  German  critic  de- 
nominate him  the  American  Goethe! 


106  TRANSLATION 

a  compelling  power   unto   a   new  birth   of  our 
American  Literature. 

For  not  to  no  purpose,  must  we  believe,  are 
we  thus,  by  origin,  of  many  nations  and  lan- 
guages ;  and  if  America  shall  become  in  truth  the 
cultural  fulfillment  of  Europe's  prophetic  hope, 
she  will  not  be  a  New  England  but  a  New  Eu- 
rope. Then  the  preachers  and  promoters  of  her 
larger  National  life,  unto  the  appearance  of  her 
original  seers  and  world-poets,  will  be  the  Trans- 
lators, who  make  live  for  us,  together  in  a  social 
whole,  the  several  great  and  noble  ispirits  pf 
every  people,  physically  or  spiritually  ancestral 
to  our  own  that  is  to  be!  Shakespeare  and  Mil- 
ton shall  have  to  welcome  on  equal  terms,  in  this 
their  new  Empire,  Dante,  Moliere,  Goethe  and  a 
score  more  of  their  peers,  "bards  of  passion  and 
of  mirth."  And  unto  this  consummation  let  the 
present  paper  be  only,  for  aught  we  care — if  our 
disallower  would  so  phrase  it — the  raucous  crow 
of  a  cockerel  on  a  rail  fence,  in  the  sublime  face 
of  the  vast  **Kose  of  Dawn!" 


THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY. 


*'A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever  "  is  the 
rapturous  utterance  of  a  very  young  man.  Only 
too  soon  do  we  discover  that  the  "law  of  diminish- 
ing returns"  is  operative  in  the  realm  of  the  £es- 
thetic  and  spiritual  quite  as  surely,  though  more 
slowly,  than  in  the  realm  of  sensation.  As  with 
the  drug  the  dose  has  to  be  increased,  as  in  every 
sensational  experience,  if  protracted,  the  stimulus 
has  to  become  more  emphatic  or  subtly  penetrant; 
so  we  find  that  for  sensitiveness  to  things  spiritual 
and  lovely,  the  appeal,  if  protracted  or  continuous, 
requires  some  sort  of  rebirth  of  us,  the  subject, — 
some  refreshment,  dipping  into  the  fount  of  youth 
— if  our  rapture,  our  ecstasy,  nay,  our  pleasurable 
excitement,  is  to  continue  increasing  or  constant. 

Relative  novelty,  then,  must  always  remain  an 
element  of  importance  in  our  judgments,  though 
we  freely  admit  that  the  best  test  of  things  artis- 
tic is,  nevertheless:  can  they  endure  familiarity 
without  a  resulting  indifference  or  contempt  on 
our  part?  It  is  not  that  the  old  things  are  worse, 
but  that  our  powers  fail  us,  and  that  we  need  vari- 
ety in  the  appeal,  however  willing  we  may  be  to 
compel  some  measure  thereto  of  attention.    How 

107 


108  THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY 

much  more  is  this  the  case  if  we  desire  to  create  a 
profound  emotional  interest?  Coleridge's  ''Ode 
to  Dejection"  is  not  the  morbid  record  of  a  merely 
personal  degeneracy.  Beauty,  while  it  has  un- 
doubtedly its  objective  follies,  if  one  might  so  say, 
is  as  a  psychic  experience  dependent  upon  a  cer- 
tain resiliency  and  superabundance  of  spirit  in 
us.  "Joy  is  the  beauty-making  jDower"  and  "we 
in  ourselves  rejoice."  Should  we  become  disap- 
pointed with  self  and  this  fount  therefore  of  inner 
delight  run  dry,  we  shall,  like  Coleridge,  "see,  not 
feel,  how  beautiful  they  are:" — those  clouds  pil- 
ing golden  about  the  setting  sun;  those  seas 
stretching  before  us  cold  to  the  dawn ;  those  moun- 
tains reaching  wistfully  into  the  blue ;  those  lovely 
valleys  filled  with  idyllic  hopes  and  delicious,  deli- 
cate eccentricities  of  coloring  and  form;  those 
marvelous  intricate  aspirations  in  stone,  the 
Gothic  cathedrals;  those  quiet,  serene,  because 
self-controlled,  perfections  of  the  Greek  sculptor; 
those  epics  and  dramas  that  have  fed  the  higher 
soul  of  our  civilization  for  many  centuries  with- 
out indications  of  failing  power  to  provide  and 
bless. 

Now,  is  there  any  escape  from  this  dying  out  in 
us  of  that  experience  which  as  we  grow  older  we 
need  but  more  and  more  sorely?  The  adolescent 
in  very  deed  do  have  their  world  in  them;  they 
suffice  unto  themselves.  Their  eyes  are  closed  by 
a  spell  save  to  their  own  reflections  in  the  univer- 
sal looking-glass.    They  do  not  seem  to  need  even 


THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY  109 

God.  They  do  not  require  the  support  of  art. 
Only  a  few  temperamentally  melancholy,  super- 
sensitive, subtly  unsocial  among  them,  seem  to 
desire  anything  besides  food  and  shelter  and  ex- 
penditure of  energ}%  noisy  companionship,  and 
wherever  cheaply  to  be  had — a  circle  of  adoring 
elders!  The  hunger  and  thirst  for  righteousness 
does  not  become  an  ache  until  we  have  known  sin 
face  to  face — fought  it  hand  to  hand.  The  yearn- 
ing for  beauty,  likewise,  does  not  become  a  com- 
pelling passion  until  we  have  experienced  ugli- 
ness. When  the  days  of  splendid  self-enthrone- 
ment are  over — when  we  awake — when  we  cry  out 
godless  for  a  God,  hideous  for  art,  besmirched  for 
purity, — then  we  are  already  jaded,  stand  disillu- 
sioned and  clear-sighted  with  Coleridge — forever 
this  side  Jordan!  But  right  here  do  we  get  a 
suggestion,  offered  us  by  the  mother  who  lives  her 
life  over  again  in  her  daughter  whom  she  is  intro- 
ducing to  society;  by  the  father  who  is  making  a 
place  in  the  business  world  for  his  son.  When  we, 
on  our  own  account,  cease  to  respond,  for  any  rea- 
son whatever,  to  a  given  stimulus,  we  can  indi- 
rectly, through  sympathy,  obtain  a  reaction  there- 
to in  ourself,  by  imparting  to  another  the  experi- 
ence of  the  joy  we  once  had  ourself;  and  that  per- 
haps is  why  I  take  my  favorite  book  from  the 
shelf  most  often  when  my  friend  is  with  me.  I 
know  what  it  contains ;  I  know  it  is  noble,  lovely, 
exquisite,  holy;  I  fear  to  discover  that  I  am  dull 
of  sight,  hard  of  hearing,  and  I  leave  the  book  un- 
opened when  alone. 


110  THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY 

So,  to  use  theological  language,  ''faith"  leads 
to  "works"  because  ''works"  preserve  and  re- 
store "faith."  The  very  self -preservative  instinct 
of  "faith"  impels  the  faithful  to  "works."  It  is 
after  all,  then,  no  altruistic  impulse  in  us  which 
makes  us  artist,  preacher,  proselytizer,  teacher, 
special  pleader  for  things  divine. 

In  Browning's  "Pauline,"  the  gifted  youth  who 
refuses  to  embody  his  ideas  in  definite  language 
(because  he  prefers  to  admire  his  shifting  day- 
dream world  and  adore  himself  as  its  creator) 
will  suffer  that  decline  of  his  image-making  power, 
so  subtly  analyzed  by  Browning  later  in  the  pite- 
ous case  of  Sordello.  He  who  refuses  his  en- 
deavor to  glorify  his  God  by  obtaining  for  Him 
the  praise  of  others  will  sooner  or  later  forfeit 
the  bliss  of  worship,  which,  to  save  himself  from 
odious  comparisons  of  present  with  past  and  con- 
sequent despair,  he  shall  have  to  secure  some- 
how. 

Quite  apart  from  any  pride  in  creation,  any  am- 
bitious longings  for  fame  or  fortune,  every  sin- 
cere lover  of  beauty  sooner  or  later  will  find  stir- 
ring in  himself  this  missionary  zeal.  Hence,  the 
enduring  of  poetic  birth-pains,  of  hopes  deferred, 
of  remorse  at  failures,  of  shame  incident  to  dis- 
paragement and  misunderstanding;  and  all  ever- 
more solely,  however  unawares,  for  the  one  and 
selfsame  "cause:"  an  ever  fresh  revelation  to 
himself,  in  all  her  virgin  loveliness,  of  Lady 
Beauty. 


THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY  111 

II. 

To  obtain  a  definition  of  art  is  no  easy  matter, 
and  the  reason  perhaps  is  that  every  artist  sets 
forth  from  the  particulars  of  his  special  art,  and 
therefore  arrives  at  a  conclusion  insufficiently  gen- 
eral to  satisfy  his  brethren  who  worship  Lady 
Beauty  according  to  another  rite.  When  Moliere 
humorously  presents  us  with  the  oft-mentioned  pic- 
ture of  that  naif  enfant  terrible,  his  Bourgeois, 
crying  out,  ''And  when  I  say  'fetch  my  slippers,' 
is  that  prose?  Have  I  been  talking  prose  all  my 
life  without  knowing  it?"  it  is  of  course  the  pe- 
dantic rhetorician  who  is  coming  in  for  good- 
natured  criticism,  quite  as  much  as  the  Bour- 
geois. Prose,  if  we  mean  by  it  an  art-form,  is 
not  stumbled  into  by  most  of  us.  To  be  natural 
is  not  always  to  be  gracious,  noble,  or  even  inter- 
esting. The  masters  of  prose  are  fewer  in  num- 
ber than  the  masters  of  verse.  Just  because  the 
rules  of  the  technique  of  prose-expression  are 
more  unseizable  and  manifold,  because  the  range 
is  greater  and  the  shadings  more  delicate,  it 
would  be  less  likely  for  a  man  to  stumble  into 
prose  than  into  verse.  Language  having  its  daily, 
hourly  utilities  as  a  medium  of  haphazard  human 
intercourse  is  one  thing;  and  quite  another  thing 
is  language  seized  upon  by  the  holy  spirit  of  man 
for  the  ennoblement  of  things  expressed,  for  the 
enlargement  of  the  hearer  and  reader,  to  the  van- 
ishing of  horizon  limits,  to  the  intensive  realiza- 


112  THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY 

tion  of  the  life  of  the  body  and  the  soul.  And  it 
is  so  with  all  other  materials,  not  merely  with  lan- 
guage. But  perhaps  no  art  suffers  so  much  as 
literary  art  by  the  inevitable  confusion  of  terms. 
Cyclopaedias  are  not  literature.  Newspaper  writ- 
ing very  rarely  makes  even  an  effort  to  be  liter- 
ature. Most  of  the  fiction  devoured  by  the  read- 
ers who  have  learned  the  three  R's,  but  never 
served  their  apprenticeship,  never  applied  for  a 
novitiate,  are  mere  panderings,  mere  pretenses — 
utilities  that  hardly  rank  with  cabbage  leaf  to- 
bacco, cereal  coffee,  but — surely  they  are  in  no 
sense  ''art."  For,  as  not  all  verbal  expression  is 
art, — prose  or  verse, — so  not  all  drawing,  all 
sculpting,  all  thrumming  and  strumming  is  art. 
Expression,  to  be  sure,  it  is;  but  only  expression 
that  arrests  attention,  conveys  intention,  and  pro- 
duces distention,  can  rightly  be  considered  art.  It 
is  only  such  expression  as  impresses  with  the 
worth  of  what  is  expressed  by  the  manner  of  the 
expression,  that  deserves  the  name;  and  to  be 
true  art,  the  impression  of  worth  must  be  in  due 
proportion  to  the  presumed  importance  of  what  is 
expressed. 

The  question,  of  course,  may  be  raised,  ''Why 
art  at  alH"  to  which  we  should  answer,  "Why  ex- 
pression at  all  of  any  sort?"  "Speech  is  silver 
and  silence  is  golden."  Why  not  then  the 
golden  standard  forever  and  aye,  "Aum  and 
ecstasy?"  We  should  be  disposed  to  reply:  Be- 
cause "Aum  and  ecstasy"  are  reasonably  possi- 


THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY  113 

ble  only  to  the  cross-logged  Yogi  with  milleniums 
of  rice  diet.  To  us  carnivorous  folk  who  do  and 
die,  who  are  essentially  active  and  not  contem- 
plative, to  whom  rest  is  incident  to  work,  for  whom 
the  night  is  the  interval  between  day  and  day,  what 
we  need  is  not  *'Aum  and  ecstasy,"  not  golden 
silence,  but  noble  and  ennobling  speech.  If  we  are 
racially  compelled  to  utterance,  if  we  can  never 
say  die  while  alive,  and  if  living  to  us  means  do- 
ing, then  art  becomes  a  temperamental  religious 
necessity,  a  sine  qua  non  of  exaltation  and  ideal 
apotheosis  for  the  men  of  our  European  and 
American  stocks. 

The  highest  intelligent  man  of  our  race  may  not 
be  blessed  like  William  Blake  with  fourfold  vision ; 
Beulah  may  for  him  be  a  promised  land ;  and  much 
more  so  that  realm  unpromised  where  one 
beholds  the  unseen,  the  unthinkable.  But  to  him 
at  least  is  granted  twofold  vision  always :  things- 
as-they-are,  and  things-as-they-might-be  and  are 
not;  as  they  are  not,  though  they  were  such  per- 
haps, and  are  to  be  such  again  some  time.  He 
may  endeavor  to  give  his  ideal  world  a  home  in 
the  mystic  past:  some  golden  age  of  innocency, 
some  Eden-life  unfallen,  some  time  when  the  Gods 
walked  joatently  with  man.  Or,  like  the  modern 
evolutionist,  he  may  project  his  ideal  world  for- 
ward into  the  ages  to  come.  In  either  case  the 
contrast  remains :  the  world-as-it-is,  the  world-as- 
it-can-be-thought. 

To  the  world-as-it-is  the  practical  man  is  closely 


114  THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY 

related.  In  the  world-as-it-might-be  the  man  of 
the  spirit  claims  his  citizenship.  Now  thmgs-as- 
they-are  compel  us  to  see  them,  and  things-as- 
they-were-or-are-to-be  must  seem  therefore  rela- 
tively unreal.  The  body  makes  its  hunger  felt, 
when  the  spirit  will  starve  without  a  murmur.  We 
live  in  the  present,  and  we  can  not  afford  to  be 
absent-minded  or  absent-hearted.  If,  however,  the 
present  be  sordid,  base,  ignoble,  mean,  shall  not 
we  ourselves  be  assimilated  to  it,  and  become  sor- 
did, base,  ignoble,  mean?  The  seer  in  the  sty? 
The  poet  in  the  garret  ?  Young  love  in  a  cottage  ? 
True,  and  when  we  ai»e  seers,  all  anointed  inev- 
itably; when  we  are  poets  of  unfailing  aspiration 
and  inspiration;  when  we  are  immortal  lovers 
having  bathed  in  Morris's  Well  at  the  World's 
End ;  then  can  we  safely  inhabit  cottage,  attic,  or 
sty.  When,  in  other  words,  we  have  the  child's 
power  of  touching  our  environment  with  the  fairy- 
wand,  and  making  the  garbage-barrel  in  the  back 
yard  become  a  pile  of  multi-colored  precious 
things  strewn  with  diamonds ;  then  it  may  be  safe 
for  us.  When  pumpkin  will  do  for  carriage,  and 
rats  for  coachmen,  we  do  not  need  art,  because  we 
have  not  yet  the  need  of  twofold  vision.  We  do 
do  not  see  things-as-they-are  at  all;  we  only 
see  things-as-they-might-be.  But  then,  on  the 
other  hand,  our  social  value  to  the  world  is  well 
nigh  lost.  We  are  hermits,  harmless  egomaniacs, 
or  children  grown  up,  (that  most  awful  thing) — 
the  littlQ  babe  by  increase  of  dimension  become  the 


THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY  115 

simpering  idiot.  But,  even  for  idealism's  sake, 
we  must  live  in  the  world  of  tliings-as-tliey-are  and 
we  must  take  cognizance  of  the  relations  of  things 
in  that  world;  for  if  ever  the  world  of  things-as- 
they-are  is  to  realize  in  part  our  vision  of  things- 
as-they-might-be,  it  will  not  he  through  hocus 
pocus,  self-deception,  not  through  Eddyite  denials 
of  the  obvious ;  but  through  honest  recognition  of 
facts  and  courageous  affirmations  in  long  pro- 
tracted toil,  that  will  result  in  bringing  our  two 
discrepant  worlds  at  least  to  partial  reconcilia- 
tion, and  the  soul  to  some  degree  of  merited  peace. 
For  so  long  as  these  worlds  are  wholly  apart  and 
hostile,  we  ourselves  must  suffer  a  species  of  dich- 
otomy. To  say  the  least,  our  amphibious  life  be- 
comes distressing,  and  we  tend  to  ignore  or  deny 
that  world  which  will  most  brook  ignoring  or  de- 
nial. At  best  we  will  drift  with  the  current 
only,  instead  of  outspeeding  it  by  oar  or  sail. 
Now  it  is  expressly  to  save  us  from  thus  being 
drifted  with  the  current  that  art  is  summoned 
to  our  aid. 

We  may  arrive  then  at  some  notion  of  what  art 
is  by  clearly  recognizing  its  human  service.  To 
make  us  see  things-as-they-are-not  with  some 
measure  of  distinctness,  and  make  us  believe  in 
that  vision  it  has  granted  us;  to  make  us  discern 
intellectual  realities  as  vividly  as  we  are  often 
compelled  to  suffer  the  grosser  realities  of  sense; 
this  is  the  function  of  art.  Not  that  every  ideal 
is  better  than  the  actual.  There  may  be  ideals  in- 


116  THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY 

finitely  worse  than  the  actual.  Only  the  ideal,  that 
which  ought-  (as  we  say)  -to  be,  is  among  the  things 
that  are  not;  and,  in  order  really  to  discern  the 
worth  of  that  particular  possibility,  we  must  ap- 
peal to  sense  and  emotion.  If  it  be  found  worthy, 
we  may  then  anticipate  development  and  contrib- 
ute therefore  ''to  the  shortening  of  the  times." 
If  it  be  found  unworthy,  we  shall  have,  by  our 
own  imaginative  experience  of  it,  forever  per- 
chance, quenched  to  the  soul's  profit,  a  false  and 
vicious  hope. 

Progress  is  at  the  risk  of  degeneracy,  and  the 
visions  of  things  ideal,  the  art  prophetic  and  po- 
etic, may  serve  Ahriman  as  well  as  Ormuzd.  This 
proviso  we  frankly  make,  and  proceed  to  restate 
what  we  deem  to  be  the  office  of  art:  to  create 
an  appearance  that  can  compete  with  actuality, 
not  by  delusion  causing  a  hallucinatory  error, 
but  by  illusion ;  an  association,  that  is  to  say,  with 
what  is  real,  establishing  some  arbitrary  point  of 
contact  between  the  sense-world  and  the  world 
of  ideas,  a  form  forced  upon  stone,  a  meaning  in- 
jected into  words,  an  incantation  made  into  sounds 
competent  to  call  up  some  specific  emotion.  And 
all  this  that  we  may  see  things-as-they-are-not, 
knowing  that  they  are  not  actually,  but  are  in  a 
deeper  sense  for  us  already  real,  real  as  tree  in 
acorn,  real  as  rose  in  slip,  and  that  they  may  and 
must  indeed  come  to  be  actual  for  us  or  in  us,  or 
for  and  in  our  offspring,  the  men  that  yet  shall  be. 


THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY  117 


ni. 

Let  us  revert  again  to  what  we  mean  by  ideal- 
ization. We  have  heard  so  much  of  realism  and 
naturalism  that  many  suppose  to  idealize  is  to  be 
wilfully  fantastic,  absurd,  maudlin,  to  reveal  a 
childish  or  senile  incompetency  of  some  sort.  The 
fact  is  that  the  extremest  theoretical  realist  or 
naturalist  never  for  one  instant  in  his  practice  ex- 
pects to  take  the  world  haphazard  as  he  finds  it. 
"Wlien  my  landscapist  friend  says  that  everything 
"has  an  interesting  aspect",  and  that  therefore 
one  need  have  no  care  for  selection  of  subjects 
for  art,  he  tucks  awa}-^  into  his  word  ** aspect" 
that  process  of  selection  so  essential  to  art,  and 
which  he  is  unaware  of,  because  it  is  instinctive. 
Even  the  photographer  must  "compose."  He 
must  not  only  dispose  his  matter  with  reference  to 
his  point  of  view,  but  he  must  relate  the  parts  of 
his  subject  with  reference  to  a  united  significant 
effect;  he  must,  in  other  words,  extricate  the  to 
him  essential  from  the  insignificant  details.  If 
our  artist  works  in  terms  of  time  rather  than  of 
space,  as  epic  or  dramatic  poet,  he  must  show  a 
consciousness  of  the  cause  in  the  effect;  insin- 
uate what  is  possible  in  the  mere  appearance  of 
what  is;  make  the  latent,  patent,  so  to  say;  the 
generic,  vital;  and  the  meaning,  inherent.  He 
must  emphasize  and  individualize;  seize  and  eter- 
nalize the  moment  or  sequence  of  moments  in  the 


118  THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY 

progress  of  events;  isolate  aspects  of  things;   in 
a  word,  anticipate  evolution. 

And  all  this  the  artist  does;  not  of  a  set  pur- 
pose, perhaps,  but  most  persistently  because  he 
desires  that  his  presentation,  interpretation,  or 
creation  shall  give  us  joy;  that  we  shall  feel  a 
passion  for  it,  a  fear  and  awe  of  it,  a  tender  devo- 
tion to  it.  These  purposes  he  cannot  achieve  ex- 
cept by  economizing  our  energy,  directing  us 
aright,  saving  us  from  the  haphazards  and  bad 
luck,  by  the  best  road,  or  the  well-defined  grassy 
pathway ;  leaving  us  free  only  where  we  are  safe, 
giving  us  just  enough  to  do  that  we  may  share 
his  joy  of  creation,  and  imagine  that  it  is  we 
who  have  discovered  the  meaning,  that  by  us  the 
value  has  been  assigned  to  the  vision,  and  that  of 
us  it  obtains  its  symbolic  worth,  its  sacramental 
halo. 

Is  there,  however,  no  need  of  ethical  criticism? 
Shall  the  artist  make  us  hells  as  well  as  heavens  1 
Shall  he  create  for  us  the  Witch  of  Horsel  with 
as  guileless  an  innocency  as  the  Venus  Urania? 
Ah,  it  is  only  he  who  has  not  been  fully  initiated 
into  the  mysteries  of  art  who  fears  for  us  the 
results  of  aesthetic  freedom.  Only  what  appeals 
to  us  in  our  highest,  that  does  not  incur  the  con- 
demnation of  our  noblest,  will  maintain  itself  for 
long.  The  abominations  of  the  fashion  plate  are 
misbegotten  and  born  amiss  into  the  world  by  the 
Trade-spirit ;  and  the  unholy  monster  straightway 
devours  his  own  offspring.    It  is  so  of  every  other 


THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY  119 

abomination  or  mere  virtuosity  wliich  is  meaning- 
less or  abhorrent  to  the  noble  that  abides  withheld 
from  vicious  mutilation  or  self-murder  in  the  veri- 
est essence  of  man.  False  ideals,  degrading  experi- 
ences, can  be  bravely  set  forth  in  art ;  and  though 
they  may  not  be  for  all  men,  yet  their  very  artis- 
tic treatment,  if  such  they  have  received,  will  serve 
to  disinfect  and  neutralize  their  inherent  natural 
poison.  Surely  the  ''City  of  Dreadful  Night" 
will  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  the  aesthetic  anti- 
dote, rather  than  encourage  melancholia.  The 
''Laus  Veneris"  may  have  been  abused;  but  it  has 
corrupted  as  yet  probably  no  man  or  woman.  The 
''Fleurs  du  Mai"  whatever  may  be  said  against 
them  in  so  far  as  they  are  art,  have  done  the  world 
no  conspicuous  harm.  Whereas,  to  decree  eth- 
ically what  shall  or  shall  not  be  endeavored  by  the 
artist,  would  mean  the  death  of  the  art  spirit.  Let 
us  not  forget  that  every  great  prophet  has  been 
called  dangerous  and  immoral  and  subversive  of 
order  by  his  contemporaries.  Every  great  moral 
innovator  must  make  experiments,  and  perhaps  in 
his  own  person.  If  he  is  to  discover  new  truth  he 
should  be  at  liberty  to  set  aside  all  pre-judgments 
however  right  they  may  be,  repeal  all  laws  hoW' 
ever  prudent,  and  thereby  ascertain  afresh  for 
himself  and  us  what  the  veritable  facts  may  be. 
Thus  St.  Paul  assures  us  that  insomuch  as  sin 
abounded,  so  much  the  more  did  grace  abound. 
And  Shelley,  Byron  and  Goethe,  and  Heine,  not 
assuredly  unimpeachable  in  their  private  lives, 


120  THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY 

have  served  to  advance  in  definiteness  the  moral 
ideal  of  the  race;  the  error  and  weakness  of  the 
artist  has  served  not  less  truly  (nay  more  per- 
haps) than  his  success  or  virtue.  The  Bible  has  its 
obscene  passages.  Shakespeare  might  be  wrested 
to  a  soul's  destruction.  Men  have  committed  sui- 
cide after  reading  the  **  Sorrows  of  Werther," — 
but  so  did  the  swine  choke  in  the  sea  of  Gennesa- 
reth ! 

Without  freedom  of  the  artist,  no  art;  and 
without  art,  if  you  include  in  the  term  all  those 
means  to  set  before  us  the  world-as-it-is-not-but- 
as-it-might-be,  we  are  mere  animals  living  to  in- 
dividual and  associate  animal  ends.  To  be  en- 
dowed with  the  power  to  compare,  invent,  and 
discover,  to  have  all  our  activities  leading  to  defi- 
nitions of  truth  and  good,  and  these  being  de- 
prived of  all  real  actualization  here  and  now,  in 
so  far  as  they  are  felt  to  be  the  substance  of  our 
human  life, — such  a  condition  must  cause  that 
bitter  despondency,  an  awful  despair  to  super- 
vene, which  will  throw  us  back  upon  our  merely 
animal  selves.  What  is  truth?  Where  is  good? 
Have  these  no  reality  save  in  idea?  Are  they 
malign  ghosts  haunting  our  sensual  feast?  So 
we  doubt  and  disbelieve  and  suffer  until  art  says 
yea  to  our  hopes,  and  the  ideal  is  real ;  and  we  are 
bid  behold  and  worship.  So  art  saves  our  faith 
in  God,  because  it  saves  our  faith  in  man  as  man. 

The  province  then  of  art,  we  repeat,  is  to  ren- 
der sensible  what  we  would  have  so.    The  Zeus? 


THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY  121 

The  Apollo?  Behold  the  Man.  But  the  LaocoonI 
Ay?  And  CEdipus,  Job,  and  Lear?  The  painful 
and  the  criminal  even  are  by  deeper  understand- 
ing of  life  to  be  redeemed  for  us.  We  are  to  be 
carried  in  the  chariot  of  fire  unto  the  farther  side 
of  disillusion,  beyond  despondency.  But  the 
Satyr?  The  Pan?  Here  also  art  has  the  same  of- 
fice. Aristophanes,  Moliere,  and  George  Mere- 
dith,— what  do  they  endeavor  to  do  but  save  us 
from  our  cynicism,  from  criticism  reacting  acidly 
upon  our  self?  Is  the  world  not  good  enough  for 
us?  Is  there  failure,  inconsistency,  absurdity?  So 
much  the  better.  The  exception  proves  the  rule. 
This  perverse  and  absurd  world  could  not  main- 
tain itself  here  at  all,  but  that  it  is  founded  on  the 
unshakable,  and  surrounded  of  the  serene.  If  our 
intellect  is  confounded,  it  is  but  that  we  may  be 
compelled  to  live  with  the  Gods,  and  behold  all 
things  very  good  from  the  superhuman  point  of 
view.  So  in  the  true  presentation  of  the  ideal,  in 
the  redemption  of  the  hideous  and  grotesque,  in 
the  reinterpretation  of  the  pen^erse  and  con- 
temptible (working  idyllically,  tragically,  comical- 
ly, humorously  or  satirically),  art  is  always  per- 
forming the  same  holy  office :  making  us  realize  the 
world  of  vision  in  and  through  the  world  of  sense. 


122  THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY 

IV. 

But  the  practical  man,  the  man  who  has  spent 
perhaps  the  best  years  of  his  life  in  the  midst  of 
things-as-they-are,  refuses  altogether  to  recognize 
consciously  and  pay  his  devotions  to  the  world  of 
things-as-they-might-be.  He  will  not  read  poetry 
except  for  information.  Literature  and  sculpture 
and  painting  must  for  him  immortalize  incidents 
and  events,  subtly  present  him  with  usable  psych- 
ology, be  the  weather  prophet  unto  his  shifty  cli- 
mate. He  must  have  his  little  moral  Q.  E.  D. 
tacked  to  the  fable,  or  fancy  he  obtains  a  magic 
spell  to  improve  his  luck.  If  song  and  dance  and 
procession  are  allowed,  it  is  not  for  their  loveli- 
ness but  for  their  vanities  and  lubricity,  their  ad- 
vertising value  in  pomp  and  show.  He  must  have 
shelter  that  will  make  known  his  bank  balance. 
He  would  have  comfort,  amusement,  distraction, 
excitement  for  the  miserable  little  leisure  that  his 
business  leaves.  If  art  will  do  these  things  he 
will  accept  of  art.  He  recognizes  the  necessity  of 
decorating  the  banquet  hall,  publishing  his  patri- 
otism with  bunting,  receiving  the  president  with 
illuminations  and  the  diamond-studded  shirt- 
bosom,  because  these  things  keep  up  faith  in  an 
era  of  prosperity !  So  your  practical  man  always 
and  always  insists  upon  an  immediate  utilitarian 
service,  if  he  is  to  invest  even  stolen  goods  in  art. 
And  the  artist  is  apt  to  speak  harshly  of  the  prac- 
tical man,  consider  him  an  out  and  out  savage, 


THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY  123 

deserving  only  to  be  electrocuted — when  artists 
shall  control  the  government ! 

Fortunately  for  us  the  republic  of  Plato  is  not 
likely  to  be  set  up  for  a  while.  The  poets  will 
not  be  banished  the  land,  neither  will  the  philos- 
ophers make  or  administer  the  laws.  The  prac- 
tical man,  whatever  his  shortcomings,  by  his  very 
contact  with  the  world  of  things-as-they-are  is 
trained  to  demand  of  art  that  one  thing  without 
which  art  cannot  maintain  itself  true  for  any 
length  of  time.  It  is  altogether  too  easy  for  the 
artist  to  build  a  Chinese  wall  about  himself, — co- 
teries, cliques,  mutual  admiration  societies, — and 
circumscribe  the  realm  of  his  goddess,  Beauty,  and 
render  her  worship  impotent  for  social  good.  The 
practical  man  says,  ''show  me  the  use  of  art,  bring 
the  world  of  things-as-they-might-be  into  specific 
and  immediate  touch  with  the  world  of  things-as- 
they-are,  at  one  point  surely,  at  every  point  if  pos- 
sible." Now,  whatever  we  think  of  him,  we  shall 
have  to  recognize  the  plain  fact  that  the  practical 
man  will  more  and  more  inconsiderately  urge  upon 
us  these  demands.  We,  special  pleaders  for  art, 
have  really  no  choice  but  to  conciliate  the  selfish 
nature  in  him,  avoiding  thus  its  hostilities  which 
would  neutralize  for  him  all  the  spiritual  efficacy 
of  art;  we  must  preoccupy  the  conscious  mind  of 
him  whom  we  would  cause  to  worship,  so  as  to 
contract  its  circle  of  vigilance,  distract  it  from  the 
scrutiny  of  what  it  cannot  comprehend,  and  thus 
effectively  reach  it  as  an  irresistible  suggestion 


124  THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY 

through  the  deeper, inner  man.  "Here  is  the  use- 
ful, practical  friend.  I  recommend  art  to  you 
only — as  useful !"  And  before  he  knows,  the  prac- 
tical man  finds  his  faith  reviving,  his  will  forti- 
fied, his  love  fanned  to  a  blaze,  and  all  these  things 
seem  to  be  a  discovery  of  his  own,  an  inspiration 
of  his  own,  coming  as  they  do  to  him  out  of  him- 
self. This  is  good  pedagogic  psychology.  If  art 
desires  to  convince,  it  must  first  then  understand 
that  for  every  man  the  most  truly  delightful  is 
likely  to  be,  in  his  present  untutored  state,  part 
of  what  is  to  him  uninteresting,  tiresome,  pro- 
voking, or  positively  repulsive.  If  we  are  to 
wheedle  our  prospective  convert  out  of  his  preju- 
dices, and  if  we  be  not  proselyters,  we  are  no 
teachers  and  deep  impassioned  lovers,  we  shall  ac- 
complish our  design  best  by  that  highest  art,  a  to- 
tal concealment  of  art,  that  art  which  we  are  not 
always  conscious  of  as  admirers  and  adorers,  be- 
cause the  producers  thereof  had  themselves  ceased 
to  be  conscious  as  producers,  it  being  the  product 
of  long  devoted  habit,  study,  resolute  addiction, 
blessed  occurrences  and  inspirations,  When  art 
becomes  deliberately  and  self-magnifyingly  didac- 
tic; when  art  talks  too  self-oglingly  of  its  ''mis- 
sion" and  of  its  ''message"  with  overmuch  unc- 
tion, when  it  struts  about  fantastically,  crowns  it- 
self with  laurel,  and  deports  itself  unseemly,  art 
is,  we  doubt  not,  in  imminent  danger  of  perishing. 
So  the  demands  of  the  practical  man  turn  out  to 
be  but  reinforcements  of  the  highest  demands  of 


THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY  125 

the  very  poetic  spirit  in  man.  The  practical  man 
demands  selflessness  in  poet  and  seer.  And  what 
is  that  but  the  one  safe  warrant  of  the  effective 
working  in  and  through  him  (the  artist)  of  that 
higher  self,  that  racial  consciousness,  Zeit-geist, 
muses,  Holy  Spirit, — call  it  what  you  please! 
Without  it,  true  art  has  never  come  to  being  and 
power  in  the  recorded  past. 

V. 

It  is  for  these  reasons  that  the  Arts  and  Crafts 
movement  is  to  be  held  as  salutary  in  spite  of  tem- 
porary aberrations,  and  the  inevitable  occasional 
exploitations  of  the  general  programme  by  canny 
Fras,  and  others  of  their  industrious  ilk.  William 
Morris  was  more  of  a  prophet  as  craftsman  and 
salesman,  than  on  the  socialist  platform.  I  want 
a  chair  for  comfort.  It  shall  serve  my  body  first. 
My  body  only!  Shall  it  serve  me  as  it  could  serve 
an  ape!  ''No,"  says  the  chair.  "See  when  you 
are  at  leisure  to  see:  I  am  rightly, honestly  built, 
graceful  and  strong.  I  am  honest;  I  am  gener- 
ous. I  am  for  thee  then  not  only  as  ape,  but  as 
normal  man.  If  thou  hast  time  and  will  to  con- 
sider, he  who  made  me  was  not  a  slave,  a  machine. 
He  was  as  thou,  my  owner,  or  he  could  never  have 
understood  thy  wants  and  made  me  for  thee. 
When  thou  art  with  me,  thou  art  also  with  the 
spirit  of  a  friend  and  brother,  and  when  thou  hast 
leisure  let  me  further  whisper  into  thine  ear:    I 


126  THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY 

am  not  only  for  thee  as  thou  art,  but  for  thee  as 
thou  mightest  be.  Before  thee  were  men,  else 
were  not  I  such;  and  after  thee  I  am  ready  for 
thy  children's  children.  My  maker  has  antici- 
pated their  consciousness;  what  is  dim  in  thee, 
and  what  thou  therefore  canst  not  see  but  dimly 
in  me,  shall  be  bright  in  them,  and  shall  for  them 
shine  out  brightly  from  me.  I  see  the  immortality 
of  thy  race,  the  immortality  of  the  individual 
spirit,  if  there  be  further  evolution  for  thee  after 
death.  I  am  of  the  noble  past.  I  am  for  the  nobler 
future."  So  it  is  that  the  beautiful  chair  becomes 
a  prophet  unto  the  weary  and  despondent  worker, 
a  cheerer,  a  comforter,  a  friend  of  the  spirit.  So 
it  is  that  art  takes  our  inner  life  and  compels  it 
to  its  higher  possibilities,  nay,  rather  impels  and 
persuades,  establishes  the  dominion  of  the  for- 
tunate moment,  perennializes  the  instant  of  surest 
and  sanest  vision. 

Thou  hast  been  on  the  mount,  0  flushed  seer, 
blessed  singer,  weaver  of  musical  fancies,  and 
thou  hast  beheld  the  ordinarily  unseen?  Very 
well  indeed.  Descend  forthwith  into  the  vallev. 
Yet  ere  thou  goest  down,  take  with  thee  this  shin- 
ing stone,  this  flower,  as  tokens  that  thou  hast 
been  here  communing  with  God.  Thou  sayest, 
^'Why,  am  I  not  full  enough  of  the  vision!"  True, 
thou  art  now  full  of  the  vision,  but  at  the  foot  of 
the  mount  is  the  demoniac  boy,  and  the  multitudes 
of  little  faith.  Take  down  with  thee  a  tale,  a 
sketch,  a  song,  a  dance,  a  little  daub,  a  foolisb 


THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY  127 

modeling,  the  plan  of  a  structure;  nay,  not  only 
to  testify  that  thou  hast  seen,  but  to  give  unto 
others  the  desire  to  climb  the  mount  whence  thou 
sawest  what  thou  canst  but  ill  report ! 

To  the  present  writer  at  all  events  it  seems  clear 
that  without  public  glory  there  could  not  long  be 
patriotism  or  civic  pride;  that  order  and  self- 
subordination  cannot  be  maintained  on  any  large 
scale  without  a  sense  of  worth  in  the  whole  of 
which  we  may  be  but  an  insignificant  part;  and 
that  this  sense  of  worth,  in  the  whole  which  we 
must  serve,  needs  must  be  set  forth  for  us  visibly, 
audibly,  palpably  in  monument  and  building,  in 
music  and  poetry  and  pageant;  must  be  made  to 
appeal  to  the  carnal  eye  and  ear  and  touch,  if  it 
is  to  conquer  the  rebellious  lusts  of  the  individual, 
and  make  him  a  joyous  servant  of  society  without 
other  reward  than  his  knightly  joy.  Not  that  art 
will  suffice  to  do  all  this  alone,  but  that  all  this 
cannot  be  done  at  all  without  art.  How  shall  in 
fact  the  masses  sustain  and  increase  their  faith 
in  God  without  psalms,  and  temples,  and  eloquence 
of  story  and  parable,  and  harp  and  organ,  and 
voice ;  without  procession  and  dance,  spectacle  and 
drama?  Without  art  and  such  induced  spiritual 
sight,  faith  in  God,  which  is  but  higher  faith  in 
man,  has  never  long  remained  the  creative  evi- 
dence of  things  unseen.  Hence,  we  dare  to  affirm 
the  sublime  social,  political,  moral,  religious  util- 
ity of  art  to  the  civilized  man  in  chief  of  our 
practical  American  society.    And  what  needs  to 


128  THE  UTILITY  OF  BEAUTY 

be  done  that  we  may  obtain  the  loyal  and  gener- 
ous obedience  of  our  men  of  affairs,  as  also  of  our 
leaders  of  the  people  to  the  behests  of  art?  Wliy, 
dear  impracticable  lover  of  thy  goddess,  convince 
them  of  the  utility  of  Beauty.  Assure  them  that 
beauty  is  not  ashamed  to  be  useful,  to  reach  mod- 
estly and  indirectly, — proud  rather  that  she  can 
never  be  true  to  herself  without  subserving  the 
humblest  as  well  as  the  loftiest  uses  of  man. 


A   THEORY   AND   VINDICATION   OF   THE 

COMIC. 


To  write  of  the  spirit  of  comedy  in  all  serious- 
ness seems  droll  enough,  which  is  perhaps  the  rea- 
son there  is  in  English  no  satisfactory  treatise  on 
the  subject.  The  first  effort  with  us  at  a  state- 
ment of  the  nature  of  comedy  is,  so  far  as  I  know, 
Meredith's  essay  on  ''The  Comic  Spirit,"  of  value 
assuredly  to  whoever  is  able  to  read  it;  yet,  is 
one  ever  quite  sure  one  has  got  out  of  it  exactly 
what  Meredith  put  into  it?  At  all  events  it  has 
not  been  i:)opular,  nor  very  generally  illuminative. 
For  my  part  I  was  obliged  to  do  some  thinking 
of  my  own  (because,  probably,  I  did  not  fully  un- 
derstand Mr.  Meredith),  and  to  present  succinctly 
the  results  of  that  process  is  the  purpose  of  this 
paper. 

Comedy  does  not  necessarily  manifest  itself  in 
any  one  particular  literary  form.  The  word 
"comedy,"  therefore,  as  used  in  this  paper,  desig- 
nates a  spirit,  a  mood,  an  intellectual  and  emo- 
tional attitude  which  has,  to  be  sure,  manifested 
itself  chiefly  in  drama,  but  had  long  ere  that  em- 
ployed the  fable,  the  epic,  the  ballad,  or  even  the 
lyric  poem,  each  in  its  way  a  congenial  form. 

The  comic  spirit  follows  close  in  the  wake  of 

129 


130  THE  COMIC 

the  tragic,  because  it  proceeds  in  part  from  it. 
Wliat  seems  to  me  the  psychological  view  of  the 
origin  of  comedy  can  be  stated  as  follows :  There 
is  an  instinct  in  every  species  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  type.  The  barnyard  fowl,  distinguished 
by  a  coat  of  paint,  is  not  envied.  Considered  sin- 
gular, he  is  jocosely  eliminated.  It  is  the  instinct 
of  the  species  to  preserve  itself  from  whimsical 
variations.  Monstrosities,  produced  naturally  or 
artificially,  are  removed.  A  most  fortunate  in- 
stinct, only  it  operates  less  happily  with  man. 
Of  animals  the  survivor  is  the  most  competent  to 
meet  the  needs  of  his  physical  life.  No  variation 
can  maintain  itself  unless  distinctly  in  the  direc- 
tion of  greater  strength,  speed,  cunning,  courage, 
love.  But  schoolyard  and  barnyard  are  in  this 
respect  unlike.  With  humanity  the  ''fittest,"  us- 
ing the  word  in  its  best  sense,  that  of  subserving 
the  greater  interests  of  the  race,  is  not  always  by 
any  means  he  who  is  best  armed  for  defense,  most 
competent  to  find  the  means  of  subsistence,  most 
formidable  in  aggression.  "Wherefore  it  is  an 
early  discovery  that  when  we  have  reached  man 
this  instinct  requires  some  check. 

Wliile  on  the  whole  the  brave  man  fares  bet- 
ter than  the  coward,  the  bravest  dies  first,  and  al- 
ways and  inevitably  must  die  first.  It  were,  there- 
fore, very  well  to  be  brave,  yet  not  too  brave,  else 
one  would  be  eliminated,  without  a  chance  to  pass 
on  one's  special  temperament  and  disposition, 
either  by  continuously  obtruded  example,  or  by 


THE  COMIC  131 

actual  procreation  and  rearing  of  offspring.  Now, 
therefore,  the  hero-song  appears  more  or  less  a 
calamity  song,  the  calamity  gloried  in  as  proving 
the  hero  to  the  uttermost,  and  the  tragic  spirit  is  the 
soul  of  this  song  which  first  assumes  some  such 
form  as  the  popular  ballad,  the  lay,  the  epic, 
yet  ultimately  finds  its  proper  body  in  the  well- 
knit  drama.  It  compensates  the  hero  for  his  life 
cut  short,  and  it  raises  up  offspring  for  him  by 
setting  forth  his  example  when  he  is  not  there  to 
do  it  in  person.  Thus  tragedy  may  be  termed  a 
device  to  advance  the  species,  obviating  the  dan- 
ger first  apparent  in  man's  breed,  of  the  ''best," 
the  most  redoubtable,  the  most  beautiful,  inev- 
itably perishing.  So  taught,  we  call  him  who  per- 
ishes, because  the  best,  a  ''fool,"  to  be  sure,  but 
piteously  add  an  epithet  which  changes  every- 
thing, and  as  "God's  fool"  he  imposes  on  us  and 
exacts  worship. 

Now  tragedy  does  not  deter  men  from  following 
in  the  footsteps  of  the  "God's  fool."  On  the  con- 
trary, it  encourages,  incites  to  rivalry,  for,  thanks 
to  human  courage,  death  allures,  provided  it  be  a 
death  to  some  pui'ioose.  The  death  of  the  hero 
has  worth  then  as  a  display  of  courage  and  an 
appeal  to  courage.  ^Moreover,  it  assigns  new  work 
to  its  cause;  it  indicates  the  high  purchase  price 
of  virtue,  and  is  the  main  origin  of  moral  values. 
Thus  the  hero's  calamitous  career  does  not  dis- 
hearten; the  death  of  the  hero  is  not  a  punish- 
ment of  his  deserving,  but  a  revelation,  a  precious 


132  THE  COMIC 

privilege,  an  ecstatic  reward,  an  allurement  of 
glory.  Such  is  tlie  vis  tragica  and  tlie  ars  tragica : 
to  set  forth  and  further  commend  by  an  ap- 
peal to  the  aesthetic  sense  the  reasons  for  such 
a  death;  to  make  it  fascinate  supernaturally  be- 
cause it  leads  without  fail  to  some  God,  or  some 
God-like  perfection  of  man. 

Now,  when  tragedy  is  well  established,  and  has 
come  to  dominate  the  finer  intellectual  life  of 
men,  certain  specious  errors  gain  more  or  less 
general  acceptance.  First,  since  the  hero  is  a  sin- 
gular person,  all  singular  persons  are,  suppos- 
edly, heroes.  The  old  instinct,  tending  to  elim- 
inate the  peculiar,  odd  and  strange,  is  quite  re- 
versed. Artistic  dime  museums  are  temples  of  a 
new  religion,  and  set  up  therein,  for  popular  wor- 
ship, any  person  who  is  sufficiently  singular !  Every 
"monster"  supposititiously  a  hero,  godman,  or 
avatar,  is  to  be  fostered  and  fended,  lionized  and 
aped!  Second,  and  worse,  as  peace  more  and 
more  settles  down  on  the  cultured  community,  the 
hero's  role  is  perceived  to  be  interesting,  with 
peculiar  immunities  and  perquisites;  a  role  that 
can  be  affected  with  profit  after  some  preliminary 
study.  The  ''sham  hero"  then  appears  and 
breeds  this  kind  prolifically.  Now  these  two,  the 
protected  ''monster"  and  the  cunning  "sham 
hero,"  result  from  the  ascendency  of  the  tragic 
sj^irit  over  the  mind  of  civilized  man. 

A  corrective  is  required  which  is  instinctively 
and  inevitably  produced  somewhat  in  this  wise: 


THE  COMIC  133 

First,  the  tragedy,  wbieli  has  grown  in  intensity 
(each  artist  endeavoring  to  outhid  his  predeces- 
sor for  popular  favor),  becomes  so  grossly  exag- 
gerated, makes  so  excessive  a  demand  on  the  cred- 
ulity of  an  ordinary  person,  that  all  honest  awe 
passes  away,  and  the  common  man,  suddenly 
aware  of  his  advantage,  takes  his  revenge  on  the 
*'hero,"  against  whom,  deep  down  in  his  soul,  he 
has  always  cherished  a  grudge,  because  so  arro- 
gantly greater  than  himself.  Putting  it  another 
way:  by  the  natural,  instinctive  self-love  of  the 
**hero"  the  growth  and  development  of  tragedy 
along  the  line  of  least  resistance  occurs  and  accel- 
erates. When  it  has  traveled  too  far  in  the  direc- 
tion of  melodrama,  it  is  overtaken  by  the  literarj^ 
reaction,  namely,  the  first  attempt  at  artistic 
comedy,  probably  more  or  less  of  the  nature  of 
parody  or  burlesque.  It  exposes  the  ''monster," 
and  does  so  by  a  more  heavy  overcharging  of  all 
that  the  tragic  artist  has  been  doing  or  misdoing, 
till  the  product  is  quite  incredible  and  preposter- 
ous, and  supplies  the  occasion  for  an  instant  re- 
versal of  judgment  and  feeling.  Soon  the  ' '  sham 
hero,*'  when  burlesque  has  had  its  little  turn,  is 
directly  attacked,  without  regard  to  tragedy,  lurid 
and  overcharged,  and  often  the  attack  is  con- 
ducted very  subtly  and  cunningly.  TVe  have  seen 
the  ''hero"  and  know  just  what  he  does  in  ad- 
versity (having  always  been  in  adversity,  at  least 
when  officially  presented  to  us),  and  so  we  are 
quite  armed,  if  we  be  the  "sham  hero",  for  all 


134  THE  COMIC 

contingencies — except  prosperity.  Just  as  in  the 
tragedy,  therefore,  the  hero  meets  calamity,  in 
comedy  the  cunning  ' '  sham  hero ' '  is  embarrassed 
by  not  meeting  the  calamity  when  it  fell  due,  and 
the  ''sham  hero"  openly  convicts  himself;  or  the 
calamity  is  held  in  such  malign  suspense  that  the 
honest  "would-be-hero's"  watchings  have  wearied 
him,  until  he  betrays  the  fact  that  he  is  not  alto- 
gether so  well  prepared  for  actual  calamity  as  he 
had  believed ;  that  he  had  only  been  ready  for  the 
appearance  of  calamity,  and  not  for  the  appear- 
ance of  calamity!  But,  of  course,  the  exposure  of 
the  "monster"  and  the  "sham  hero"  and  the 
foolish  "would-be-hero"  is  the  truest  vindication 
of  the  real  "hero";  wherefore  we  see  comedy  has 
but  come  to  the  rescue  of  tragedy  at  its  critical 
hour,  and  is  not  its  foe,  but  its  loyal  fellow  and 
friend. 

It  is  strange  that  history,in  a  frolicsome  mo- 
ment, when  naming  her  first  great  comic  artist 
should  have  perpetrated  a  pun.  As  his  name  ety- 
mologically  affirms  (or  can  be  made  to  affirm  by 
some  violence  to  its  integrity),  Aristo-phanes  was 
in  his  works  a  "display  of  the  best," — the  best 
for  his  breed  and  race.  What  tragic  artists  like 
^schylus  and  Sophocles  had  displayed  by  suffer- 
ing, he  displays  and  champions  with  laughter. 
The  God  of  Life  is  still  very  good;  and  ecstasy 
(the  stand  out  of  and  above  self),  his  holiest  boon; 
and  enthusiasm,  the  sense  of  his  divinity  within, 
the  pledge  of  his  favor.    But  to  illustrate  the  in- 


THE  COMIC  135 

timate  connection  between  comedy  and  tragedy 
let  just  a  few  examples  be  suggested.  The  sol- 
emn balderdash  of  scholastics  in  theology  and 
law  without  true  literary  expression;  then  Ra- 
belais. Later,  for  similar  reasons,  Erasmus.  The 
mediaeval  romantic  lay  in  verse,  then  volubly  in 
multiple  volumes, — and  Don  Quixote  with  Sanclio 
of  the  Paunch  ride  forth.  The  first  part  of  the 
*'Tale  of  the  Sorrowful  Knight"  was  to  kill  a 
craze ;  the  second,  to  kill  his  hero  for  fear  others 
might  live  by  exploiting  him  if  he  were  left  alive. 
Yet  the  result — a  profound,  world-moving  com- 
edy of  the  mad  idealist  and  the  gross  man  of  the 
senses.  Richardson,  sweetish-sentimental,  self- 
consciously chaste,  and  Fielding's  "Joseph  An- 
drews" and  "Tom  Jones."  Or  further  back,  the 
early  tragedy  of  Marlowe,  then  comedy  with 
Jonson  and  Shakespeare.  Then  tragedy  once 
more.  Shakespeare,  Webster,  Ford,  and  through 
Fletcher  and  Massinger  to  riotous  comedy.  Not 
that  each  mood  always  finds  its  worthy  artist,  but 
the  sequence  of  moods  and  their  interdependence 
remains  for  the  historian  to  record,  and  the  stu- 
dent of  aesthetics  to  ponder. 

n. 

Now  what  is  the  psychology  of  the  comic  spirit? 
Why  do  we  laugh?  Should  we  go  to  the  psycholo- 
gist for  counsel  and  the  solution  of  our  problem; 
he  is  so  solemn  a  personage  that  he  probably  could 
not  catch  laughter  in  his  laboratory  to  isolate  and 


136  THE  COMIC 

analyze.  Hence,  we  shall  have  to  dispense  with 
his  aid  as  best  we  can.  Two  things  suggest  them- 
selves without  the  aid  of  his  profounder  special- 
ist wisdom,  as  indispensable  conditions  of  the  gen- 
esis of  laughter. 

First,  a  perception.  That  is  the  flattering  trait 
of  comedy,  that  in  consequence  of  this  prerequi- 
site it  is  only  for  more  or  less  intelligent  people, 
such  as  we.  A  perception?  Ah,  yes,  a  percep- 
tion of  unreason.  And  that  is  not  to  be  had,  God 
willing,  of  any  but  reasonable  individuals.  A  per- 
ception of  illogicalness,  incongruity,  unfitness  of 
means  to  ends !  Hence,  no  comic  perception  with- 
out some  knowledge  of  the  world.  And  comedy 
notably  does  not  belong  to  the  young,  nor  appears 
to  rejoice  a  wholly  unsophisticated  period.  It 
comes  most  buxomly  welcome  to  a  period  of  ac- 
cumulated experience,  knowing  what  ought  to  hap- 
pen, and  therefore  schooled  to  detect  absurdity, 
should  the  opposite  occur  and  soberly  present  its 
credentials.  A  perception,  then,  first  and  fore- 
most. 

Next,  something  else  and  more.  To  see  things 
unreasonable  and  illogical,  to  realize  the  incon- 
gruities and  the  mesalliances  of  life,  is  not,  I 
think,  the  essence  of  good  cheer.  Usually  it  might 
be  expected  to  entail  a  fit  of  melancholy,  spleenful 
disgust  with  life,  or  lachrymose  despair  of  good. 
But  when  such  a  perception  is  preceded,  ushered, 
guarded,  and  decorously  followed  up  by  an  in- 
veterate, stnlwart,  omnipresent  optimism   (often 


THE  COMIC  137 

true  child  of  a  good  digestion) ;  when  it  is  com- 
pelled to  hobnob  with  a  vital,  vigorous  conviction 
as  to  the  rightness  of  things,  or  their  indefinite 
capacity  for  righting  themselves  or  being  righted ; 
the  faith  that  the  universal  order,  odd  to  relate, 
w411  somehow  continue  quite  well  without  even 
ourself  to  superintend  evolution,  and  that  God 
^'manages,"  none  knows  how,  in  His  Heaven  after 
all,  and  on  His  earth  much  more  than  half  the 
time  at  the  worst ;  why,  then,  the  above-mentioned 
perception  of  the  incongruity,  absurdity,  pervers- 
ity— inside-outness  or  upside-downness — results  in 
another  and  totally  different  emotion  than  the 
classic  blues  of  Burton  and  his  bilious  confrater- 
nity of  all  ages.  This  secondary  emotion  (dispel- 
ling the  primary,  should  it  have  chanced  to  outrun 
faith  a  little  and  ventured  into  the  open  of  con- 
sciousness) is  the  Comic.  I  cannot  describe  it,  nor 
define  it.  I  can  only  assert  that  it  arises  without 
fail  from  the  perception  aforesaid,  if  concurrent 
with  that  quick,  essential ' '  faith. ' '  Then  you  have 
the  flash  from  the  two  poles,  the  meeting  kiss  of 
extremes. 

But  someone  objects:  there  is  also  a  laughter 
that  proceeds  not  from  faith?  To  be  sure.  Yet 
such  laughter  is  of  quite  a  different  nature  from 
that  above  called  ''comic."  It  is  rather  what  we 
denote  by  ''cynical,"  or, more  picturesquely  still, 
by  ''devilish  laughter."  It  is  due  to  a  perception 
of  incongruity  and  a  perverse  theory  apparently 
demonstrated  by  it.     The  malignant  joy  arises 


138  THE  COMIC 

from  vanity  gratified,  superior  intelligence  adver- 
tised, and  the  chance  of  the  company  which  envi- 
ous misery  loves.  It  is  an  odious,  dogmatic  un- 
faith  bred  of  ''the  dog  in  the  manger,"  and  fed 
on  the  shadows  of  ''sour  grapes;"  a  diet  so  un- 
nutritious  as  to  explain  its  ravenous  hunger  for 
any  lickerish  morsel  of  veritable  mishap.  The 
degrees  of  the  sincerity  of  such  a  faith  in  evil  and 
death  will  measure  the  hideousness  of  the  laugh- 
ter. A  cynical  moment  may  sometimes  give  the 
zest  needed  by  comedy, — the  zero  point  for  vital 
temperatures,  the  minus  to  offset  the  plus ;  but  a 
cynical  piece  of  art  is  a  contradiction  in  terms,  as 
an  art  work  must,  to  be  such,  please  nobly,  and  no 
noble  pleasure  can  be  had  (save  by  inhuman 
ghoul)  from  mere  insults  hurled  by  fiend's  laugh- 
ter at  truth,  good,  and  beauty,  at  man  and  God.  It 
is  most  unfortunate  that  a  careless  use  of  the 
words  has  often  caused  the  "cynical"  and  the 
"comic"  to  be  confounded  to  the  serious  prejudice 
and  misvaluation  of  the  latter. 

A  brief  summary  may  here  be  apposite.  Comic 
emotion  originates  from  the  co-existence  of  a  per- 
ception of  incongruity  and  a  persistent  conviction, 
(not  probably  more  than  half  conscious  and  in 
all  likelihood  quite  unexplicit),  that  in  despite  of 
such  incongruity  things  are  right.  The  error,  the 
failure,  the  insanity,  if  you  please,  of  the  partic- 
ular life-form  under  consideration,  only  serves  to 
emphasize  the  success  of  life  on  the  whole,  an  in- 
stance of  the  exception  cited  for  the  more  effect- 
ive proof  of  the  rule. 


THE  COMIC  139 

If  we  turn  now  to  the  victim  of  our  comic  per- 
ception, to  the  mask,  type,  role  realized  for  the 
nonce  in  a  living  individual  as  a  person,  we  find 
ourselves  obliged  to  recognize  a  distinction  cre- 
ated by  the  mood  in  which  we  envisage  him  and 
his  predicament.  If  the  victim  is  regarded  as 
responsible  morally  for  what  he  misdoes  and  suf- 
fers, if  his  errors,  sins,  shames,  are  all  held  to  be 
of  his  own  wilful,  stupid  making,  then  we  are  per- 
haps aware  of  a  certain  antipathy  for  him,  or  in- 
dignation; and  our  laughter  is  of  the  sort  known 
as  ''satiric."  The  satire  may  become  so  virulent 
as  to  lapse  into  invective  and  irate  diatribe,  till  it 
lose  every  vestige  of  artistic  form  and  charm.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  the  victim  is  plainly  not  respon- 
sible, or  if  we  feel  kindly  towards  him,  moved  of 
our  common  kinship  and  kind,  and  endeavor  to 
make  out  to  ourselves  that  he  is  not  really  re- 
sponsible,— ^but  some  fate,  genius,  imp  of  ill  luck, 
sprite  of  goodhap,  whim  of  dame  fortune, — we 
look  at  everything  the  victim  does  and  says  quite 
differently.  The  laughter  is  gentle-natured,  and 
the  comedy  of  the  variety  called  ''humor"  may 
range  to  "farce"  and  vulgar  "horse  play,"  when 
it  waxes  uproariously  rollicking,  thus  easily  stray- 
ing beyond  the  limits  of  art. 

Out  of  sympathy  and  antipathy,  then,  for  the 
"victim"  of  the  comic  perception  arises  the  dis- 
tinction we  denominate  "humor"  and  "satire"; 
and  should  that  personal  feeling  caper  too  madly 
for  the  restraints  of  good  breeding  and  artistic 


140  THE  COMIC 

form,  they  degenerate;  and  this  degeneration  is 
shown  in  a  coarsening  of  the  caricature  which 
most  inevitably  characterizes  such  comic  work. 

If,  however,  the  ''victim"  is  considered  neither 
responsible  nor  irresponsible,  or  as  both  at  the 
same  time  for  divers  reasons,  we  have  the  shake 
of  the  brain  rather  than  of  the  belly,  betraying  it- 
self in  the  unwicked  twinkle  of  the  eye,  and  the 
gracious  waver  of  the  mouth-corners;  the  dis- 
passionate laughter  of  the  gods  on  Olympus, 
whence  the  inspiration  for  impartial,  divine  com- 
edy (in  a  truer  sense  than  Dante's),  as  playful 
on  pure  surfaces,  disinfectantly  severe  to  fester- 
ing deeps  like  the  rays  of  the  all-seeing  sun,  yet 
ever  uninvolved,  unembittered,  not  forfeiting  dig- 
nity, reposeful,  serene,  aloof.  This  supreme  sort 
of  comedy,  neither  humorous  nor  satiric,  per- 
chance an  equal  blend  of  both, — a  chemical  com- 
bination, not  a  mechanical  mixture, — is  difficult 
of  production,  and  still  more  difficult  of  general 
understanding;  the  reason,  simply  that  most 
folk  are  not  habitually  dwellers  on  Olympus, 
nor  prepared  to  laugh  sanely  and  sublimely  with 
the  immortals.  So  the  comic  artist,  however  seri- 
ous and  high  his  intention  and  stringent  his  self- 
imposed  abidance  by  the  subtlest  laws  of  his  art, 
asks  frankly  the  assistance  of  humorous  antic  or 
satiric  scowl ;  setting  himself  up  now  as  a  judge, 
again  condescending  as  a  fellow  to  the  fool;  now 
wit,  now  wag,  now  prophet,  now  clown,  so  as  to 
sustain  by  digression  the  interest  in  his  main  work 


THE  COMIC  141 

of  such  as  cannot  for  long  relish  the  fine  flavors  of 
nectar  and  ambrosia;  whose  comic  sense  is  situ- 
ate in  the  major  part  of  them,  the  belly  rather 
than  the  brain,  to  borrow  Meredith's  epigram. 
Such  is  an  explanation  of  the  paucity  of  master- 
pieces in  pure  comic  art,  and  the  adequate  apol- 
ogy for  the  usual  blending  of  genres. 

ni. 

Now  the  imposed  brevity*  of  this  paper  forbids 
all  specifications,  illustrative  suggestions,  rebuttals 
of  charges  fair  and  foul.  "We  cannot  call  for  help 
on  the  great  Moliere,  king  once  of  the  united  king- 
doms and  scattered  principalities  of  the  comic, 
or  his  latest  royal  scion,  Iving  George,  surnamed 
Meredith,  no  doubt  on  purpose  that  the  populace 
might  even  to-day  ascribe  to  him  the  authorship 
of  "Lucile,"  and  be  caught  unawares  in  a  jest. 
The  Daudet  of  "Numa  Eoumestan"  and  the  Dau- 
det,  also,  of  the  'Tope's  Mule"  and  of  "Tartarin 
de  Tarascon";  Juvenal,  austere  and  dire,  and 
Ben  Jonson,  exquisite  in  ''Volpone,*'  brutally 
realistic  in  ** Bartholomew  Fair."  Ah,  for  allow- 
ance, the  girth  a  Falstaffian  book  might  grant,  to 
call  up  the  shades — nay,  materialize  the  men! 
Aristophanes  of  the  ''Birds"  and  the  "Frogs"; 
Lucian  of  the  "Trip  to  the  :Moon"  and  the  Olym- 
pian and  philosophic  topsy-turvy-doms ;  La  Fon- 
taine of  the  "Fables,"  ay,  and  of  the  "Contes" 

•For  further  suggestions,  sop  Studies  in  Comic  Literature,  A  Syl- 
labus.    University  of  Clucago  Press,   1906. 


142  THE  COMIC 

(let  us  mention  them  sotto  voce) ;  Le  Sage  with 
his  beloved  ne'er-do-weel   of  a  "Gil  Bias,"  or 
Beaumarchais  with  the  deviceful  barber  who  loves 
''close  shaves";  Rabelais,  the  ogre  omnivorous 
and  alas,  obscene ;  Fielding,  in  eighteenth  century 
costume,  yet  betrayed  by  his  speech,  lineage,  and 
blood;  Heine  of  the  augustly  droll  "Atta  Troll," 
of  the  North  Sea  with  its  salt  winds  of  satire ;  By- 
ron of  the  cutting  ''Don  Juan";   Hugo  of  "les 
Chatiments";  Swift  with  his  awful  "Gulliver"; 
Nietzsche  with  his  brillant ' '  Zarathustra '  '—enthu- 
siasts all  (each  in  his  way)  for  a  diviner  breed  of 
men;    Dickens    or    Thackeray;    the    sentimental 
Shakespeare  of  "As  You  Like  It"  and  the  serious 
Shakespeare  of  "Measure  for  Measure";  the  sav- 
age ironies  of  the  Bible,  both  Old  and  New  Testa- 
ment; the  grim  "bonhomie"  of  such  a  paternal 
"father"  as  Tertulian;  the  exquisite  malice  of  such 
an  anti-reformer  and  lover  of  monks  as  Erasmus ! 
How  one  would  like  to  put  them  each  and  all  in  the 
witness  box,  and  proceed  to  swear  them  in !     It  is 
only  right  to  state  that  whatever  in  this  essay  has 
been  put  with  oracular  dogmatism  was  gained  by 
wholesome  commerce  with  these  worthies,  now  a 
bit  and  then  a  bit,  and  would  not  ever  have  been 
reduced  to  order,  save  for  that  need  of  defense 
felt  by  all  of  their  friends  and  lovers  against  the 
advocates    of   an   unjoyful,    iniquitous,    soporific 
gravity  and  gloom,  who  stalk  abroad  lugubriously 
devout  in  broadcloth  or  in  sackcloth,  to  the  shame 
of  the  earth  and  the  despair  of  heaven. 


THE  COMIC  143 

Youth,  for  all  its  natural  excess  of  happiness, 
nay,  perchance  because  of  it  the  rather,  is  wont 
at  times  to  take  itself  with  becoming  seriousness 
and  solemnity  (not  to  say  unction),  with  a  flauntel 
yet  blushful  self-pity  for  its  gifts  of  head  an  1 
heart  and  their  disproportionate  terrestrial  rec- 
ognition. Its  self-consciousness  and  naive  ego- 
tism induce  it  to  cherish  the  doleful  domino,  and 
hug  philosophically  the  shadowed  side  of  every 
street.  The  mature  man,  who  has  suffered  much 
and  survived  more,  knowing  few  hurts  mortal, 
and  fewer  still,  alas,  immortal,  walks  out  freely 
in  the  open,  if  such  there  be,  and  deems  the  road 
not  ill.  In  our  teens  the  gruesome  elegies,  and  in 
the  forties  or  ripe  fifties  the  pyrotechnics  of  the 
boy !  The  truth  is,  perhaps,  that  what  we  contrib- 
ute to  our  life  is  what  we  value  most;  in  youth 
our  melancholy,  and  later  on  our  gaiety.  Only 
what  the  spirit  has  created  for  itself  will  it  make 
much  of ;  and  therefore  it  is  the  older  man  who  is 
glad  that  the  worst  things  are  usually  ready  to 
hand,  and  the  best  things  scarce,  that  he  may  ad- 
dress himself  bravely  to  the  production  of  these, 
and  take  a  creator's  joy  in  the  process.  If  wilful 
optimism  be  the  saddest  pessimism  as  some  main- 
tain, we  suppose  a  willess  pessimism  must  be  hilari- 
ous! Heine,  at  all  events,  is  well  aware  that  the 
future  ages  would  scarce  be  edified  to  learn  that 
he  loved  Agnes, — some  Agnes  or  other,  once  upon 
a  time, — any  Agnes  for  the  matter  of  that,  saint 
or  sinner, — if  he  should  be  permitted  to  write  his 


144  THE  COMIC 

little  legend  across  the  firmamental  blue,  with  a 
Norway  spruce  for  a  pen  and  the  fire  of  ^tna  for 
indelible  red  ink!  He  is  romantic  no  more,  and 
has  wooed  the  comic  muse.  Figaro,  on  the  other 
hand,  has  acquired  the  habit  of  instantaneous 
laughter  at  every  turn  of  events,  because  of  the 
long  experience  of  misery.  He  laughs  at  once  lest 
he  should  catch  himself  weeping;  and  he  is  sure 
one  comes  out  better  in  the  end  by  using  one's 
wits,  than  by  an  inopportune  abuse  of  the  lachry- 
mal ducts.  Such  his  ''brave  philosophy";  and  it 
wins  the  reader — and  the  day. 

Moliere,  the  sick  man,  mocks  the  physician  of 
his  times,  and  the  sick  man  likewise,  and  then  feels 
almost  well ;  cheated  husband  and  lover,  he  makes 
no  end  of  mirth  at  the  exj^ense  of  male  egotists 
who  deem  they  hold  securely  human  hearts  in  the 
hollow  of  either  hand,  or  in  the  still  hollower  pre- 
tenses of  their  moral  codes.  Moliere,  the  deeply 
religious  man,  exposes  the  pious  hypocrite;  im- 
practical, often  baffled  enthusiast  that  he  is,  for 
sincerity  and  truth,  he  mercilessly  assails  in  "Don 
Juan"  the  man  who  purposes  always  to  be  him- 
self by  indulging  every  whim,  and  in  "Alceste" 
the  consciously  moral  man  who  makes  of  his  mo- 
rality an  anti-social  force.  "Wliom,  then,  has  Moli- 
ere been  all  the  while  victimizing,  if  not  himself, 
or  at  least  what  was  closest  kin  to  him? 

Is  it  fine  to  die  in  battle?  Is  it  not  as  fine  and 
finer  may  be  to  die  for  years  by  inches,  and  wit- 
tily, as  Heine?    If  William   Blake    falls   asleep 


THE  COMIC  145 

singing  in  songs  of  his  own  improvising  tlie  glory 
of  his  God,  and  triumplis  over  the  world,  the  devil, 
and  the  flesh ;  what  of  Scarron,  the  tortured  knot 
of  nerves  that  flinches  not  nor  wails,  expiring  in  a 
jest  that  makes  his  friends  about  him  riot  with 
laughter  for  the  last  time! 

Much,  I  fear,  ought  still  to  be  said  on  this  and 
many  points,  but,  in  conclusion,  let  me  vindicate 
(or  rather  concisely  suggest  modes  of  vindica- 
tion for)  our  inherent  right  to  laugh  with  the  mas- 
ters and  the  gods ;  nay,  if  needs  were  at  the  very 
gods  even,  and  the  masters,  or  laugh  (if  such  a 
thing  as  yet  be  thinkable)  at  what  must  normally 
seem  greater  to  us  than  they — our  own  very  selves. 

FmsT.  Is  laughter  irreligious?  On  the  con- 
trary, laughter  is  religious,  since  it  involves  faith. 
Not  necessarily  a  theological  but  a  religious  faith 
is  at  the  core  of  it,  a  faith  that  if  I  perish  the 
world  will  go  on  nevertheless;  and  perhaps  if  I 
should  fall  it  may  advantage  the  world,  hard  as 
that  may  be  to  believe !  The  Greeks  went  to  the 
length  of  laughing  at  their  god  of  laughter,  not 
because  he  was  'per  se  ridiculous  (for  he  is  most 
deeply  serious  and  worshipful),  but  because  in 
laughing  at  the  misconception  of  the  god  of 
laughter,  they  could  summon  him  the  sooner  into 
their  midst. 

Second.  Is  laughter  unpliilosopliicalf  Most  as- 
suredly. The  comic  artist  always  hates  the  phi- 
losopher and  there  is  a  reason  for  this.  If  Aris- 
tophanes pillories  KSocrates,  it  is  not  the  fault  of 


146  THE  COMIC 

Aristophanes,  but  of  Socrates.  Socrates  is,  after 
all,  a  sophist.  He  seeks  to  further  the  contemplat- 
ive life.  He  would  have  us  stop  to  think.  But  he 
who  stops  to  think  will  never  even  start  to  do 
anything  in  this  world.  You  do  not  want  to  stop 
for  discussion,  you  want  to  go  on  and  do,  and  dis- 
cuss when  you  have  done  it,  provided  you  are 
lucky  and  survive  the  deed,  if  not,  some  one  else 
will,  doubtless,  have  the  leisure — and  the  pleasure. 
Socrates  is,  therefore,  the  natural  enemy  of  Aris- 
tophanes, who  stands  for  the  active  life,  and  be- 
lieves in  wwconsciousness,  knowing  that  nothing 
can  really  satisfy  which  proceeds  from  self-con- 
sciousness, and  therefore  gaily  offers  men  the 
ecstasy  of  self-oblivious  laughter.  Stop  laughing, 
by  all  means,  if  you  want  to  be  a  philosopher.* 

Third.  Is  it  immoral?  That  is  a  very  impor- 
tant objection  urged  against  comedy  from  genera- 
tion to  generation.  It  is  not  only  not  immoral, 
but  it  is  the  preservation  of  morals  to  cultivate 
by  use,  a  faculty  for  all  sorts  of  laughter.  It  is 
the  hallucination  of  prevalent  evil  which  drives 
men  to  despair.  Now,  evil  always  seems  to  be 
prevalent  when  you  scrutinize  it,  for  scrutiny  in- 
volves confined  attention  to  what  lies  immediately 
under  the  lens  in  the  focused  light.  Being  wher- 
ever we  see,  we  surmise,  nay,  affirm  it  to  be  every- 
where. But  were  it  really  everywhere,  you  and  I 
could  not  be  here  to  express  such  an  opinion. 

•Perhaps  here  (seriously  speaking)  we  have  the  reason  for  the 
little  help  the  philosophers  give  us  for  the  understanding  of  our 
present  subject! 


THE  COMIC  147 

Clearly,  the  thing  to  do,  then,  is  to  belittle  tlie  evil 
by  fair  means  and  foul,  to  undignify  it,  and  so  rob 
it  of  its  horrors  that  we  shall  not  lose  wits  or 
heart.  By  laughing  at  the  evil,  we  get  rid  of  the 
false  impression  of  its  omnipotence;  we  get  a 
little  courage,  and  our  despair  turns  a  somersault 
up  into  glory  from  the  swinging  trapeze  of  faith. 

Fourth.  Is  laughter  superficialf  Of  course  it 
is  superficial.  In  one  sense,  however,  and  not  in 
another.  But  then  some  people  prefer  to  be 
driven  as  a  plummet  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  rather 
than  float  as  a  boat  on  the  surface.  The  child 
comes  into  the  world  with  the  art  of  wailing  per- 
fect ;  the  art  of  laughing  has  to  be  learned.  Ig- 
norance is  bliss,  and  as  we  must  have  some  bliss, 
we  must  have  some  ignorance,  which  would  bet- 
ter be  of  the  wilful  sort,  lest  it  be  too  summarily 
surprised  by  our  city  cousin's  worldly  wisdom. 
Distinguish,  pray,  between  ignorance  and  igno- 
rance !  If  you  call  that  ''being  superficial,"  let  us 
be  superficial,  by  all  means. 

Fifth.  Is  laughter  unsympathetic?  This  is  an- 
other great  objection  raised  against  comedy.  Of 
course  it  is  unsympathetic;  but,  ought  one  to  be 
always  and  ever>^iere  sympathetic?  Some  peo- 
ple say  one  ought.  ''Laugh  and  the  world  laughs 
with  you;  weep  and  you  weep  alone."  How  sad! 
Thank  God,  when  you  weep  everybody  does  not 
weep,  that  there  is  some  limit  to  the  spread  of  in- 
fection. Sympathy  has  value  in  life,  great  value, 
and  it  should  be  cultivated,  but  ought  it  to  be 


m  THE  COMIC 

understood  as  '^ vicarious  sensation,"  sensation 
for  another  through  the  imagination;  and  this 
sympathy  can  at  most  only  tell  me  what  is  amiss, 
not  what  I  should  do  to  remedy  the  ill.  There- 
fore, I  shall  not  expect  to  be  saved  by  sympathy. 
It  is  not  sympathy  that  we  require  for  social  sal- 
vation, but  good,  simple  common  sense,  the  comic 
sense,  which,  neutralizing  morbid  egoism,  does 
away  with  both  alter  and  ego — leaves  us  a  plain 
perspective — the  gay  bird's  eye  view  of  the  gods. 
Sixth.  Is  the  philosophy  of  laughter  unheroicf 
I  do  not  believe  it.  Let  me  compare  briefly  two 
men,  Corneille  and  Moliere,  chosen  because  they 
stand  in  their  characteristic  attitudes  for  a  com- 
plete contrast.  Corneille  is  tragic;  he  tells  us 
how  to  do  and  die,  and  live  in  the  offspring  of 
others  we  have  inspired.  Moliere  tells  us  how  to 
be  less  intensively,  extensively  more,  how  to  live 
and  not  die,  how  to  rear  offspring  of  our  own  for 
ourselves,  and  offspring,  also,  incidentally,  for 
the  departed  heroes!  Wliich  is  the  nobler  func- 
tion! The  hero  sacrifices  his  social  qualities  to 
his  individual  perfection  of  a  particular  sort, 
whatever  that  may  be ;  while  the  common  man  sac- 
rifices his  individuality  to  his  social  obligations, 
as  he  conceives  them.  The  hero  becomes  a  kind 
of  specialist,  while  the  poor  common  man  has 
meaner  but  more  manifold  qualities.  The  reward 
of  the  hero  is  thoroughness  and  worship,  which 
is  a  fine  reward.  The  reward  of  the  other  is  some 
love,  perhaps,  for  his  amiability.    Then,  you  may 


THE  COMIC  149 

say,  tliat  one  is  an  instance  of  a  particular,  definite 
perfection  of  life  for  which  the  world  is  not  alto- 
gether ready;  the  other,  an  instance  of  the  vital 
compromise  which  it  demands.  Which  is  the  more 
heroic,  in  the  sense  of  the  courageous,  of  the 
twain?  Think  of  it!  Death  unto  life  is  the  hero's 
way,  the  tragic  method — surrender  of  society,  sur- 
render of  love ;  and  the  way  of  the  common  man 
is, — the  surrender  of  distinction,  the  surrender 
of  worship,  of  ecstasy,  of  self-admiration, — in  or- 
der to  engage  in  the  ordinary  business  of  life. 
Which  is  really,  all  things  reckoned,  the  greater 
man,  the  complete  common  man,  or  the  complete 
hero?  It  may  not  be  for  us  to  choose  which  we 
shall  endeavor  to  become,  and  our  function  is  no 
doubt  quite  definitely  settled  for  us  already.  Still, 
if  it  be  settled  in  the  paths  of  the  common  man, 
let  us  take  this  comfort:  society  needs  us  more, 
perhaps,  even  than  she  does  the  most  harrowing 
heroes ;  and  our  high  priest,  the  Comic  Artist,  is 
not  without  his  special  service,  dignity  and  re- 
ward. 


THE  EELIGIOUS  POETEY  OF  SCHILLEE. 


Five  years  ago  an  anniversary  celebration  of 
an  "utterance  into  larger  life"  profoundly  stirred 
tlie  German  world.  In  America  it  had  its  remote 
echo:  the  essay  by  Dr.  Paul  Carus,  entitled 
' '  Friedrich  Schiller,  A  Sketch  of  His  Life,  and  an 
Appreciation  of  His  Poetry,"  quoting  passages 
and  entire  poems  in  translation  from  Bowring  and 
Bulwer-Lytton. 

Touching,  to  me,  was  the  great  "Volksangs- 
gabe"  or  popular  edition,  containing,  in  188  pages 
of  double  columns,  fairly  spaced  and  legible,  the 
poems  and  the  plays  of  the  beloved  singer  of  Ger- 
man ideals.  A  truly  serviceable  memorial,  this, 
giving  the  poorest  workingman  at  a  nominal  price 
enough  to  encourage  and  cheer,  refine  and  charm 
any  honest  soul  for  a  natural  lifetime.  A  pathetic 
witness,  too,  our  big  honest,  inexpensive  quarto, 
to  the  pious  love  Schiller  sang  into  the  hearts  of 
his  countrymen.  A  great  German  poet  all  must 
admit  him  now ;  too  rhetorical  perhaps  to  endure 
translation  so  well  as  Goethe,  having  (but  for 
Coleridge)  never  engaged  the  interest  of  a  first- 
rate  translator,  almost  limited  therefore  in  ap- 
peal to  his  ''speech-brethren"  by  his  over-depend- 
ence on  verbal  melody  and  suggestive  resonance 

150 


SCHILLER  151 

of  phrases  and  the  sad  lack  of  some  Fitzgerald; 
still,  of  the  European  singers  and  poets  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  he  seems  to-day  only  less  uni- 
versal than  Heine  and  Leopardi;  while  none  but 
Byron  surpass  him  in  cosmopolitan  authority.  De 
Musset  appears  by  his  side  provincial,  Tennyson 
dilettante,  Carducci  pedantic.  Over-praised  at 
first,  and  then  impudently  patronized,  he  survives 
for  us  as  the  incarnation  of  the  spirit  of  Teutonic 
Philosophy;  sublime  hope  beyond  disillusion,  ex- 
alted withdrawal  to  the  hallowed  privacy  of  the 
virile  soul,  stoic  courage  unto  perfect  self-mastery, 
when  the  lack  of  Welt-politik  tempted  his  people 
to  indulge  in  an  inglorious  hysterical  Welt- 
Sclimerz. 

Who  lives  in  glass  houses  should  be  gracious 
from  prudential  motives.  And  what  translator 
does  not  dread  a  smooth  pebble  of  the  brook  from 
the  scrip  of  some  ruddy  shepherd  boy?  Yet  here 
we  are  still  dependent  in  the  main  on  Edgar  A. 
Bowring  (nay,  your  pardon.  Sir  Edgar)  for  our 
diffused  (or  rather  indiffused)  English  knowledge 
of  Schiller.  And,  alas,  what  inconceivable  igno- 
rance of  German  was  not  his  at  critical  moments  I 
Particularly  when  we  deal  with  the  subtle  poems 
of  thought  and  spiritual  insight  does  this  failure 
to 'Understand  secondaiy  meanings  of  the  words 
and  idiomatic  turns  of  phrase  become  disastrous, 
if  not  irritatingly  droll.  "When,  for  instance,  be- 
cause of  ''Schein's"  several  meanings,  a  ''bond's 
falling  due"  is  metamorphosed  into  the  "fading 


152  SCHILLER 

of  a  dream,  "we  hardly  know  in  so  serious  a  poem 
as  ''Resignation," — how  we  should  becomingly 
take  the  unintended  practical  joke.  Would  that 
such  things  happened  to  us  in  life!  And,  alas, 
more  miracles  occur  of  this  sort  when  least  ex- 
pected. For  instance,  in  "Fortune"  (Das  Gliick) 
the  secret  birth  of  Venus  out  of  the  infinite  sea 
becomes  an  "ill-defined  form,"  and  poor  Minerva 
is  forced  into  an  antithesis  of  sudden  maturity; 
whereas  the  poet  had  intended  both  the  gracious 
and  the  severe  goddesses  to  illustrate  the  same 
principle  of  veiled  beginnings  for  all  things  di- 
vinely great. 

To  our  rescue  came,  eight  years  ago,  a  conscien- 
tious piece  of  translating  that  at  times  makes  us 
long  for  a  more  elegant  paraphrase — such  as  Fitz- 
gerald gave  us  of  Calderon — but,  nevertheless, 
does  manfully  assist  us  to  the  straightforward 
sense  for  the  most  part,  and  to  some  intimation 
occasionally  of  the  eloquent  fervor. 

But  of  such  like  irritating  blunders  enough. 
Must  Schiller  endure  popularization  among  Eng- 
lish lovers  of  poetry — through  such  a  much- 
stained  and  smoked  glass,  lest  the  reader's  eye 
be  not  compelled  to  see  darkly  enough  for  ethical 
enthusiasm  and  mystic  glamours? 

And  yet  of  the  two  above  indicated  passages  the 
latter  only  is  well  rendered  by  Arnold-Forster,^ 
whereas  the  former  follows  Bowring  into  the 
same  misunderstanding  of  the  troublesome  idiom. 

^The  Poems  of  Schiller — E.  P.  Arnold-Forster. 


SCHILLER  153 

Years  of  earnest  battling  with  problems  intel- 
lectual, as  they  affected  the  real  life-struggles  of 
self  and  fellowman,  have  perhaps  tended  with 
some  lovers  of  poetry,  to  an  unconscious  over- 
stress  of  the  didactic.  Tndul)itably  it  was  some 
such  bias  that  induced  Matthew  Arnold  to  esti- 
mate so  extravagantly  the  merits  of  Wordsworth 
and  Byron,  and  to  dis-esteem  Percy  Bysshe  Shel- 
ley so  pitifully.  He  could  not,  doubtless,  perceive 
just  how  the  subjective  idealism  of  our  most  etlie- 
rial  singer  might  be  turned  to  practical  account 
in  a  British  struggle  for  spiritual  existence !  So, 
aware  of  this  peril,  most  of  us  at  times  are  dis- 
posed, by  reaction,  to  question  our  own  longest 
and  deepest  loves  for  poetic  oracles.  Sophocles 
and  Shakespeare  and  their  admitted  peers  we 
will  not  hestitate  to  enthrone  above  tempera- 
mental disputes.  But  Leopardi,  Hugo,  Schiller 
(not  to  mention  Arnold  himself,  Browning,  Em- 
erson, Tennyson  and  Rossetti),  do  modestly  fetch 
a  blush  to  our  critical  countenance,  and  haunt  our 
proselyting  courage  with  apologetic  strains ! 

What  shall  a  man  say  for  himself  when  he  re- 
members his  boyish  dotage  on  Longfellow;  his 
unearthly  thrills  in  the  solitude  of  wood  and 
mountain,  when  Scliiller  took  him  up  astride  his 
private  Pegasus  beyond  the  ** intense  inane"? 
Sweet  memories,  holy  prejudices !  Must  we  turn 
and  rend  the  inspirers  of  our  boyish  years?  Yet, 
on  the  other  hand,  shall  we  impose  outgrown  idol- 
atries on  those  spirits  of  to-day  who  are  born  to 


154  SCHILLER 

larger  freedom  of  outlook,  and  a  chaster,  more 
educated  taste? 

Ever  since  that  centennial  celebration  of  the 
poet's  death,  I  for  one  have  been  re-reading  every 
little  while  my  Schiller,  blessing  (with  mental  res- 
ervations) Sir  Edgar  and  Bulwer-Lytton^ — shak- 
ing my  head  at  Arnold-Forster  ominously  and  pon- 
dering an  onslaught  on  them  who  superciliously 
venture  to  ignore  the  claims  of  Germany's  darling 
bard. 

A  Burns,  a  Chatterton,  a  Keats  in  one;  to  these 
add  a  Wordsworth  and  a  Landor ;  fail  not  to  as- 
sume the  ** mighty  line"  of  Marlowe,  and  some- 
what of  the  youthful  rebellion  and  melancholy  of 
Byron — and  then  perhaps  for  him,  who  knows  not 
Schiller  in  the  original,  a  notion  of  the  German 
adoration  may  gently  dawu  on  his  bewildered  eye. 

The  ballads  gave  to  Schiller  the  hearts  of  the 
plain  people;  the  plays  secured  the  more  sophis- 
ticated; and  on  these  two  performances  must  rest 
no  doubt  his  reputation.  ''The  Eing  of  Poly- 
crates,"  "The  Cranes  of  Ibycus,"  "The  Fight 
"With  the  Dragon"  and  "The  Diver" — are,  by  com- 
mon consent,  achievements  of  the  very  first  order. 
Even  to-day  "Maria  Stuart"  and  "Wilhelm  Tell" 
appear  gracious  warm  creations,  that  bind  us  with 
a  spell  of  dramatic  eloquence,  which  we  are  too 
grateful  to  disavow.  Yet  for  those  of  us  who  believe 
in  the  prophetic  office  of  the  poet ;  who  suspect  that 
the  test  of  life's  aching  needs  is  some  warrant  of 

^The    Poems    and    Ballads    of    Schiller — Sir     Edward     Bulwer- 
Lytton. 


SCHILLER  155 

moral  truth  in  the  preacher's  deliverance ;  and  that 
the  jBsthetic  suasion  of  his  form,  coercing  the  sen- 
sitive poet,  assists  to  correct  spiritual  extrava- 
gance, to  render  sweet  and  sane  the  religious 
quest ;  for  those  who,  while  they  would  not  bring 
ethical  and  dogmatic  criticism  to  bear  directly  on 
the  creations  of  the  poet — to  gyve  his  feet  or  clip 
his  pinions, — yet  cannot  but  believe  that  (other 
things  being  equal)  a  poem  gains  much  by  its  abil- 
ity to  feed  our  ''moral  being"  and  sustain  our  as- 
piration ;  for  us  and  the  like  of  us,  surely,  an  in- 
ventory of  Schiller's  lyric  and  epigrammatic  poems 
of  moral  and  religious  thought  will  not  prove 
wholly  valueless.  For  them,  however,  who  reck 
nothing  of  such  adventitious  desert  in  things  of 
beauty,  we  have  no  irate  rebuke, — only  a  cour- 
teous dismissal  to  the  exquisite  company  of  the 
*'art  for  art's  sake"  guides  into  Elysian  fields. 

n. 

From  the  poems  of  Schiller's  ''first  period"  lit- 
tle falls  within  the  scheme  we  have  proposed.  The 
afflatus  of  the  ''Eobbers"  is  not  to  be  denied. 
Lovers  of  the  ''Gothic  romance,"  so-called,  may 
rejoice  therein.  Anne  Radcliffe,  Monk  Lewis,  Bul- 
wer-Lytton,  Edgar  Allen  Poe  &  Co.,  should  never 
be  without  a  literary  progeny.  Yet,  to  have  sur- 
vived and  outlived  a  "Storm  and  Stress"  period 
of  perfervid  adolescence  is,  for  a  poet,  no  small 
luck  and  praise. 


156  SCHILLER 

So  we  note,  only  in  passing,  the  manful  self-as- 
sertion that  expressed  itself  in  Burns'  immortal 
song,  ''A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That,"  and  much 
less  worthily,  we  regret  to  say,  in  Schiller's  piece 
of  verse-strutting  "Mannerwiirde"  and  his  hon- 
est rebuke  to  a  pompous  Pharisee: 

A  man  am  I.     Who's  more  a  man? 

Who  claims  to  be?     Go,  spring 
Freely  under  God's  shining  sun, 
And  lustily  leap  and  sing! 
*  »  *  #  • 

Well,  if  through  ice  of  the  sophistic  mind 
The  warm  blood  hath  a  little  gladlier  purled; 

What  may  not  be  achieved  of  human  kind 
Leave  thou  to  denizens  of  a  better  world. 

My  earthly  fellow  doth  the  spirit  immure, 
Though  heaven-begotten;  and  behold,  I  can 

Nowise  become  a  holy  angel  pure: 
So  let  me  follow  him,  and  be  a  man! 

Far  more  profoundly  are  we  moved,  however,  by 
certain  poems  of  the  second  period,  especially  the 
three:  ''Der  Kampf"  (The  Conflict),  "Eesigna- 
tion,"  and  ^^Die  Gotter  Griechenlands"  (The 
Gods  of  Greece).  The  first  stanza  of  his  ''Hymn  of 
Joy"  (An  die  Freude)  had  the  signal  honor  to  be- 
come part  of  Beethoven's  Choral  Symphony.  The 
Goddess  of  Joy  makes  all  her  votaries  kin.  And 
youth  feels  itself  made  solely  to  possess  her  for- 
ever! The  moments  when  the  human  race  tri- 
umphed signally  we  may  therefore  assimilate  in 
our  young  enthusiasm,  delighting  in  the  personal 
value  we  assign  to  them  as  self-expression. 
" A-ffiavit  deus,  et  dissipati  sunt/'  the  vessels  of 
our  foe  are  scattered  over  the  vasty  deep.  What 
vouthful  heart  does  not  beat  hi^li? 


SCHILLER  157 

But,  however  fancy  and  imagination  may  so 
transport  us,  we  return  ever  in  due  time  to  our 
own  single  self;  and  there  in  our  life  we  front 
quite  another  spectacle: 

No,  r  will  fi<xlit,  this  giant  fight  no  longer, 

The  fight  of  duty  und  sacrifice. 
If  the  heart's  hot  rage  to  soothe,  thou  be  no  stronger, 

Virtue,  ask  not  of  me  such  cruel  price. 

Sworn  have  I,  most  bindingly  have  sworn  it. 

To  wrestle  with  myself  for  mastery; 
Have  back  thy  victor's  wreath;  though  I  have  worn  it, 

I'll  wear  it  never.     To  sin  let  me  be  free! 

What  biographically  the  immediate  nature  of 
the  fight  may  have  been  is  of  no  jDoetic  conse- 
quence. Indeed,  the  last  stanza  profits  by  its  very 
ambiguity,  thereby  getting  reaches  of  significance 
that  belong  to  the  uttermost  of  man's  aspiration: 

Fair  and  dear  soul,  trust  not  this  angel-seeming. 
For  crime  thy  piteous  kindness  arms  me  now. 

In  the  infinite  realms  with  life's  fair  marvels  teaming 
Is  there  another  fairer  prize  than  thou? 

Or  than  the  very  crime  I  flee  from,  ever? 

O  fate  most  tyrannous; — 
The  prize  to  crown  my  virtuous  will 's  endeavor 

Doth  slay  my  virtue — thus! 

Howbeit,  only  on  condition  of  ascetic  self-de- 
nial may  higher  quests  enjoy  their  fair  fruition. 
Not  that  any  mystic  merit  of  the  sacrifice  secures 
our  reward.  Not  that  there  has  been  providen- 
tial malice  in  the  universal  order  requiring  our 
deliberate  purchase  with  pain  of  the  more  endur- 
ing pleasure.  Merely,  that  to  no  one  may  all  at 
once  be  granted.  "With  our  inevitable  quite  inno- 
cent limits  of  time  and  space  and  vitality,  choice 


158  SCHILLER 

must  be  exercised  as  discretely  as  may  be,  and  the 
consequences  abided  by.  This  simple  fact,  when 
first  intimately  realized,  causes  each  soul  in  turn 
acutest  suffering ;  and  hence  to  mankind  the  prom- 
ises of  compensation  in  some  life-to-come  have 
been  reiterated  pathetically,  and  cherished  in 
sheer  despair  of  egoism.  On  these  Schiller  will 
not  place  reliance : 

I  also  in  Arcadia  was  bom; 

And  in  my  childish  years 
Nature  to  grant  me  happiness  hath  sworn. 
I  also  in  Arcadia  was  born, 

Yet  my  short  springtide  yielded   only — tearsl 

Enumerating  his  sacrifices,  his  illusions,  and 
disillusionments,  shrinking  from  the  cynical  on- 
looker who  recks  not  of  invisible  treasures,  dis- 
quieted, disconsolate,  all  but  remorseful  for  the 
irrevokable  worthy  choice,  he  obtains  this  oracle : 

"I  love  with  one  love  all  my  children,"  cried 

A  genius  veiled  from  sight. 
"Children  of  men,  hearken:  two  flowers  abide 
The  prudent  seeker,  blowing  side  by  side, 

Hope  and  immediate  Delight." 

Who  hath  one  blossom  culled  of  the  twain, 

Let  him  not  crave  her  sister-bloom. 
Who  hath  not  faith — enjoy!     This  lore's  refrain 
Old  as  the  world:  whoso  hath  faith, — abstain! 

The  world's  recorded  life — its  Day  of  doom, 

Hope  hath  been  thine;  then  hast  thou  gained  thy  due. 

Thy  faith — the  grace  awarded  thee! 
Thou  shouldst  have  asked  thy  wise  men,  for  they  knew: 
What  might  not  of  the  moment's  flight  accrue, 

Shall  be  restored  not  of  eternity! 

Schiller's  famous  Elegy  on  departed  Hellenic 
Polytheism — ''The  Gods  of  Greece" — has  been 
fluently  rendered  by  Mr.  Arnold-Forster.     That 


SCHILLER  159 

most  pregnant  epigram,  however,  with  which  the 
poem  ends,  is  not  Englished  with  sufficient  pung- 
ency: 

And  Fancy,  crushed  by  life's  stern  pressure, 
Lives  but  in  poetry  sublime, 

is  more  elegant,  but  not  so  direct  as  Bowring's, — 

All  that  is  to  live  in  endless  song 
Must  in  life-time  first  be  drowned, 

although  it  was  not  Schiller  who  specified  a 
watery  gravel 

Again  our  subject  is  the  question  of  a  definite 
choice.  Immortal  life  in  song  (that  is,  long-contin- 
ued influence  through  the  better  part  of  man,  his 
imagination  and  craving  for  the  ideal)  must  first 
make  itself  known,  ay  more,  deliver  its  creden- 
tials by  tragic  catastrophe : 

Wass  unsterblich  im  Gesang  soil  leben, 
Muss  im  Leben  untergehn. 

All  that  in  Poesy  shall  live  forever 
Must  perish  first  in  actual  life. 

With  this  insight,  the  poet,  Schiller,  conscious 
of  his  divine  call,  could  himself  forego  pleasure, 
and  refrain  from  passion,  not  without  intimations 
perhaps  of  his  own  early  end.  He,  too,  must  ac- 
cept his  destiny,  and  serve  as  an  incentive,  and  live 
so  that  the  spell  of  his  verse  should  be  reinforced 
by  the  idealization  of  his  personal  career.  Surely 
a  fate  desendng  from  happier  men  no  unworthy 
pity! 

Not  that  the  young  poet  will  fail  at  moments 
to  regret  the  days  of  unreasonable  expectations 
and  hush  melodious  complaints  which  are  them- 


ieO  SCHILLER 

selves  consolatory.  So  the  elegy  called  ''Ideals" 
makes  an  irresistible  appeal  to  all  who  can  love 
the  palpitant  life  of  youth  in  retrospect : 

Ah,  cruel,  must  thou  then  depart 

And  leave  me  joyless  and  alone, 
Forgetful  of  what  joy  and  smart 

In  close  communion  we  have  known! 
Can  nothing  thy  departure  stay, 

Thou  golden  stage  of  earthly  time? 
Tis  vain:  thy  billows  roll  away 

To  the  eternal  sea  sublime.         (A-F.,  p.  113.) 

For  eight  more  stanzas  Schiller  reviews  the 
losses  and  bewails  them,  ending  as  the  undefeated 
man,  whose  vocation,  and  the  fellowship  it  earns 
for  him,  suffice  to  keep  him  erect,  with  countenance 
of  resolute  cheer,  face  forward: 

Of  all  that  merry  company, — 

Which  stood  beside  me  to  the  last? 
Which  comforted  my  parting  sigh? 

Which  will  abide  when  all  is  past  ? 
Friendship,  'tis  thou,  whose  healing  balm 

Is  lightly  spread  o'er  every  wound, 
Sharing  our  ills  with  loving  calm; 

Thou  whom  I  early  sought  and  found. 

And,  Labor,  thou,  who,  hand  in  hand 

With  her,  can  exercise  the  soul; 
Who  canst  all  weariness  withstand; 

Whose  solid  tasks  with  time  unroll. 
Although  thou  travail,  grain  by  grain, 

To  rear  Eternity  sublime; 
Years,  minutes,  days,  thou  canst  detain 

From  the  tremendous  debt  of  Time.  (p.  113.) 

In  two  at  least  of  the  ballads  we  seem  to  hear 
echoes  of  that  oracle  that  came  to  him,  so  unam- 
biguous and  not  to  be  denied :  ''Whoso  hath  faith 
— abstain!" 

The  classical  allegory  of  the  divine  envy  serves 
to  illustrate  the  principle  that  not  all  can  be  had 


SCHILLER  161 

which  the  heart  desires;  nay,  what  is  more,  that 
all  should  not  be  had,  even  if  accorded  of  a  partial 
fate.  Polycrates,  after  exhibitions  of  incredible 
good  fortune  is, admonished  by  his  friend: 

Wouldst    thou   immunity   from    grieff 
Then  pray  the  Gods,  in  kind  relief, 

To  shade  thy  luck  with  sorrow's  tone. 
No  man  true  happiness  has  gained 
On  whom  the  generous  Gods  have  rained 

Untempered  benefits  alone.  (A.-F.,  p.  156.) 

In  the  "Cranes  of  Ibycus,"  by  the  operation  of 
an  .^Eschylean  Chorus  of  the  Furies,  two  murder- 
ers of  the  expected  winner  of  poetic  laurels  stand 
self-confessed.  The  awe  is  realized  with  great 
dramatic  force,  and  we  feel  that  somehow  it  was 
with  Schiller  a  very  real  experience.  He  was 
not  cold-bloodedly  constructing  a  ballad  to  illus- 
trate Kant's  conception  of  the  "categorical  im- 
perative"; he  was  imparting  to  us,  by  a  tale,  some- 
thing of  his  own  shudder  at  the  mystery  of  con- 
science : 

And  between  truth  and  wonderment 

Each  quaking  heart  with  doubt  is  rent, 

And  worships  the  tremendous  might 

Which,  all  unseen,  protects  the  right; 

Unfathomable,  unexplained, 

By  which  the  threads  of  Fate  are  spun, 

Deep  in  the  human  heart  contained, — 

Yet  ever  hiding  from  the  sun.*  (A.-F..  p.  162.) 

But  our  quest  of  truth  has  ever  been  at  the  ex- 
pense of  conscience.  Always  the  old  was  settled 
in  rightful  possession.  The  new  appeared  as 
rebel,    as    invader.     The    youth,    therefore,  who 

'Agrain  here  our  complaint  is  that  the  translation  seems  to  nar- 
row the  broad  statements  somewhat  more  to  the  particular  situa- 
tion than  do  the  resonant  lines  of  the  original  stanza. 


162  SCHILLER 

would  unveil  the  Image  of  Truth  at  Sais  was  in- 
deed to  Schiller  more  than  the  hero  of  a  legend. 

Far  heavier  than  thou  deemest 
Is  this  thin  gauze,  my  son.     Light  to  thy  hand 
It  may  be — ^but  most  weighty  to  thy  conscience. 

(Bowring,  p.  191.) 

He  lifted  the  veil.  He  saw.  And  never  did  he 
publish  his  vision: — only  lived  to  warn  all  ques- 
tioners : 

** Woe— woe   to   him  who   treads   through   guilt   to   TRUTH.'" 

The  Truth  even  can  be  approached  no  other- 
wise than  as  God's  law  doth  allow.^  But  the 
poets  with  all  other  artists  have  their  custody  of 
more  than  truth: 

Ye  hold  in  trust  the  honor  of  mankind. 

Guard  it!     With  yours  'tis  closely  intertwined. 

The  charm  of  poetry  we  rightly  deem 

Part  of  creation's  well-appointed  scheme. 

Let  it  roll  on  and  melt  into  the  sea 

Of  a  divinely  blended  harmony. 

When  Truth  is  taunted  by  its  proper  age. 

Let  her  appeal  to  the  poetic  page 

And  seek  a  refuge  in  the  Muse's  choir. 

Her  real  claims  more  readily  inspire 

Eespect,  that  they  are  shrouded  o'er  with  grace. 

May  she  in  song  forever  find  a  place, 

And  on  her  dastard  enemies  shall  rain 

Avenging  paean  in  triumphal  strain. 

Ye  freeborn  scions  of  a  mother  free, 
Press  onward  firmly  with  exalted  eyes; 

Perfected  beauty  only  may  ye  see, 

And  lesser  crowns  ye  need  not  stoop  to  prizel 

The  sister  missing  in  this  present  sphere 
Clasped  to  her  mother's  bosom  ye  shall  find; 

What  lofty  souls  as  beautiful  revere 


*Bulwer-Lytton's  version. 

"The  two  ballads  of  Cassandra  and  the  Diver  each  relate  them- 
selves to  the  same  thought :  To  know  what  the  Gods  would  con- 
ceal shall  avail  no  man ;  to  explore  it  instinctively  tempting  God — 
shall  end  in  destruction. 


SCHILLER  1G3 

Must  noble  be,  and  perfect  of  its  kind. 
Poised  high  above  your  life-appointed  span, 

Let  your  ecstatic  pinions  freely  swell. 
The  dawning  image  in  your  mirror  scan, 

And  the  approaching  century  foretell. 
By  thousand  paths  and  many  devious  ways 

Through  every  varied  turning  ye  shall  glide 
To  welcome  in  the  fulness  of  her  days 

Harmonious  concord,  your  delight  and  guide. 

(A.-R,  p.  97.) 

With  so  deep  a  conviction,  then,  of  his  vocation, 
and  with  so  exalted  a  faith  in  the  divine  function 
thus  allowed  him,  why  should  the  poet  refuse  to 
be  deprived  (by  his  great  ministry  of  delight)  of 
what  the  common  lot  offers  to  mankind?  Having 
friendship  and  work,  knowing  the  tragic  law  of 
higher  life  through  death,  apprehending  the  oracle 
of  necessary  choice, — why  should  not  the  poet  be 
of  good  cheer,  even  though  Zeus  seems  to  have 
divided  out  the  earth  already,  reserving  for  him  no 
equitable  portion?  His  high-priesthood  was,  to  be 
sure,  foreseen : 

"Part  of  creation's  well-appointed  scheme." 

And  so,  it  could  not  have  been,  after  all,  an  over- 
sight, albeit  the  ballad  so  has  it,  entitled  ''The 
Partition  of  the  World": 

"If  thou  to  dwell  in  dreamland  hast  elected," 
Keplied  the  God,  "lay  not  the  blame  on  me. 
Where  wast  thou  when  the  sharing  was  effected?" 
"I  was,"  the  Poet  said,  "by  thee. 

Mine  eye  upon  thy  countenance  was  dwelling, 
Thy  heavenly  harmony  entranced  mine  ear; 

Forgive  the  mind,  thine  influence  compelling 
Eendered  oblivious  of  this  sphere!" 

"What  can  T  do?"  said  Zeus.     "For  all  is  given; 
The  harvest,  sport,  the  markets,  all  are  seized. 
But,  an  thou  choose  to  live  with  me  in  heaven. 

Come  when   thou   willst,   and  I  shall   be  well   pleased." 

(A.-F.,  p.  221.) 


164  SCHILLER 

So  much  for  the  prophetic  revelation  Schiller 
had  as  poet:  a  double  assurance  of  the  worth  of 
intelligent  sacrifice  of  the  less  excellent  for  the 
more  perfect;  the  hallowed  privilege  of  special 
self-immolation  when  granted  a  place  near  to  the 
gods,  and  an  influence  on  the  lives  of  his  fellow 
men  beyond  the  span  of  his  own  personal  life. 


III. 

Now,  in  one  single  poem  more  than  any  other 
(and  in  this  statement  we  are  not  ashamed  to 
agree  with  much  critical  tradition)  Schiller  has 
expressed  his  philosophic  counsel  of  flight  from 
the  actual  world  into  the  ''kingdom  of  imagina- 
tion". Therefore,  we  will  here  reprint  Mr.  Ar- 
nold-Forster's  version  of  ''The  Ideal  and  Life", 
suggesting  that  the  reader  compare  it,  stanza  by 
stanza,  with  the  far  less  fluent  cue  by  Bowring. 
We  are  sincerely  sorry  that  the  publisher  chal- 
lenges comparison  for  his  translator's  art  with 
Bayard  Taylor's.  That  quoted  anonymous  eulo- 
gist, "among  the  highest  authorities  on  German 
Literature  in  America,"  probably  disdained  to 
make  a  close  study  of  any  one  of  the  didactic 
pieces  where  accuracy  counts,  line  by  line,  original 
in  hand,  Bulwer-Lytton  and  Bowring  to  right  and 
left  of  him.  Only  so  could  he  have  ascertained 
how,  by  this  latest  rendering,  the  crucial  difficul- 
ties are  glided  over  smoothly  with  an  irritating 


SCHILLER  165 

insouciance,  letting  the  thought-sequence  take 
care  of  itself  as  best  it  may.  Bayard  Taylor  (so 
far  as  our  reasonably  close  inspection  through 
many  years  of  his  Faust  may  be  a  warrant  for 
praise)  never  fails  to  grasp  the  most  intimate 
sense  of  the  text  before  him,  and  to  wrestle  man- 
fully with  English  for  equivalents.  He  is  not  al- 
ways successful  in  his  quest  of  the  right  word, 
and  at  times  one  must  plead  guilty  for  him  to 
erratic  obscurities  and  wrenched  idioms.  But,  at 
least,  Taylor  does  not  smile  in  facile  rimes  his 
easy  satisfaction  at  having  avoided  close  issue 
with  the  subtle  meanings  of  a  pregnant  phrase 
in  his  original.  Let  the  reader  study  with  care 
the  tuneful  poem  made  by  Mr.  Arnold-Forster  out 
of  Schiller's  close  metaphysic  and  sententious  or- 
acular eloquence. 

THE  IDEAL  AND  LIFE 

(1) 

Calm  and  transparent,  as  a  mirror  bright, 
Flows  Life  along,  with  Zephyr  wings  bedight, 

Where  dwell  the  blest  in  their  Olympian  state. 
Moons  may  decay,  and  generations  wane; 
The  roses  of  their  godlike  youth  remain 

Immutable    amid  the  general  fate. 
A  timid  choice  is  granted  to  mankind 

'Twixt  sensual  happiness  and  peace  of  soul. 
Only  upon  celestial  brows  are  joined 

The  two,  united  under  one  control. 

(?) 

Wouldst  thou  on  earth  aspire  a  God  to  be, 
And  of  the  regions  of  the  dead  be  free, 

See  that  thou  pluck  not  of  the  garden's  fruit! 
Enough  upon  its  sheen  to  feast  thine  eyes, 
For  all  too  soon  some  new  desire  will  rise 

Possession's  transient  pleasures  to  confute. 


166  SCHILLER 

Why,  Styx  himself,  who  ninefold  trammels  bound 
About  her,  could  not  Ceres'  daughter  stay; 

She  grasped  the  apple,  and  thenceforth  was  bound 
The  will  of  dismal  Orcus  to  obey. 

(3) 

The  body  leans  upon  those  powers  alone 

Which  influence  Fate's  darkest  zone; 

But,  free  from  pressure  of  the  passing  storm, 

The  playfellow  of  Nature  at  its  best, 
Meanders  in  the  precincts  of  the  blest, 

Divine    'mid  deities — Ideal  Form. 
If  thou  wouldst  rise  upon  celestial  wings, 

The  little  pains  of  earth  thou  must  ignore; 
Abandon  count  of  mere  terrestrial  things, 

And  to  the  realms  of  the  Ideal  soar! 

(4) 

Young  ever,  and  from  earthly  blemish  free. 
In  light  of  perfect  uniformity. 

Here  is  man  's  image  by  the  Gods  designed. 
As  silent  phantom  forms  which  lived  of  yore 
Gleam  when  they  wander  on  the  Stygian  shore, 

So  these,  within  the  heavenly  frame  enshrined, 
Once  had  their  place,  before  th'  immortal  fell 

Down  to  the  dark  sarcophagus  of  earth. 
If  in  the  world  the  scales  uncertain  dwell, 

'Tis  there  that  victory  proclaims  its  birth. 

(5) 

'Tis  not  your  limbs  from  battle  to  excuse, 
Nor  in  the  weary  courage  to  infuse. 

That  the  victorious  banner  flutters  here. 
Implacable,  although  you  fain  would  rest, 
Life  hurries  you  along  upon  its  breast. 

And  Time  involves  you  in  its  wild  career. 
And  should  the  pinioned  ardour  of  the  soul 

Shrink  from  the  threatened  limits  to  its  flight, 
Look  down  at  last  upon  your  well-earned  goal 

From  Beauty's  calm  and  enviable  height. 

(6) 

If  it  be  worth  to  govern  and  protect, 
One  champion  'gainst  another  to  project, 

Fortune  and  honor  in  the  lists  to  gain. 
There  may  audacity  be  wrecked  on  force, 
And   as  the  chariots  thunder  in  their  course, 

They  mingle  helpless  on  the  dusty  plain. 


SCHILLER  167 

He  only  can  obtain  the  victor's  meed 

Whose  courage  presses  to  th'  arena's  prize. 

Only  the  strong  to  conquer  fate  succeed, 
The  weakling  in  disparaged  odour  lies. 

(7) 

While  rugged  rocks  the  stream  of  life  enclose, 
In  boiling  leaps  tumultuous  it  flows; 

Yet  how  pacific  wells  that  very  stream 
Through  Beauty's  shadowy  pastures  as  it  purls, 
And  on  its  silvered  mirror-face  unfurls 

Now  Hesperus,  and  now  Aurora's  beam. 
Here  mutual  love  a  tender  balm  inspires. 

And  weaves  a  bond  of  sympathetic  grace; 
In  peace  repose  inimical  desires, 

And  the  arch-foe  no  longer  finds  a  place. 

(8) 

When  Genius  burns  impatient,  by  his  skill 
Th'  inanimate  with  being  to  instill — 

His  very  self  with  matter  to  unite — 
Then  is  the  moment  every  nerve  to  strain, 
That  noble  Thought  victorious  may  reign 

Over  mere  element 's  obstructive  might. 
To  him  alone  who  never  seeks  repose 

The  rippling  fount  can  be  revealed, 
And  to  th'  artistic  chisel's  mastering  blows 

Alone  will  adamantine  marble  yield. 

(9) 

But,  penetrating  even  Beauty's  sphere. 
Toil  must  attend,  and   'mid  the  dust  adhere 

To  matter  which  with  glory  it  invests. 
Not  from  the  mass  laboriously  run. 
But  light,  as  though,  from  merest  essence  sprung, 

Th'  enchanting  image  every  eye  arrests. 
All  doubts  and  difficulties  pass  away 

As  victory  unfolds  its  certain  plan, 
And  there  remains  no  symptom  to  betray 

Th'  indigence  of  mortal  man. 

(10) 

When,  in  mankind's  ignoble  trappings  dressed, 
Before  the  bar  divine  ye  stand  impressed, 

And  guilt   approaches  the  immortal  throne. 
No  wonder  that  thy  vaunted  merits  pale 
In  face  of  Truth;  that  dubious  actions  quail 

When  the  Ideal  makes  its  power  known: — 


168  SCHILLER 

Perfection  is  for  no  created  thing. 

And  over  this  impenetrable  deep 
No  vessel  plies,  no  kindly  bridge  may  spring, 

In  it  no  anchor  can  its  holding  keep. 

(11) 

Be  not  alone  by  narrow  Eeason  taught, 
But  freely  rise  to  the  domain  of  Thought, 

So  dark  illusions  soon  will  be  outgrown, 
Abysses  will  no  obstacle  present. 
Thy  spirit  and  the  Deity's  cement, 

And  God  half  way  will  meet  thee  from  His  throne. 
The  rigid  law's  unyielding  fetters  bind 

Only  the  slave  who  treats  them  with  disdain  j 
Against  the  dull  resistance  of  mankind 

The  very  majesty  of  God  is  vain! 

(12) 

Torn  by  the  pangs  to  which  mankind  is  heir. 
Like  some  Laocoon,  who,  in  despair, 

Struggles  against  the  horrid  serpent  brood, 
No  wonder  man  revolts,  and  that  his  cries 
Ascend  to  the  reverberating  skies, 

And  bend  the  hearer  to  a  melting  moodi 
Victorious  echo,  Nature 's  awful  voice  1  #*' 

Let  pallor  blanch  the  too-exalted  brow,  4;" 

And  your  immortal  element  rejoice  ^ 

Before  a  sacred  sympathy  to  bowl  ^ti 

(13) 

But  in  that  light,  exhilarating  sphere 

Where  Beauty's  form  is  focused  sharp  and  clear. 

The  storm  no  longer  howls  amid  the  boles; 
Th'  emancipated  spirit  knows  no  pain. 
Tears  flow  no  longer,  and  uncurbed  remain 

The  natural  yearnings  of  impulsive  souls. 
Fair,  as  when  Iris'  many- tinted  bow 

Transforms  the  weeping  cloud  to  sparkling  dew, 
So  on  the  murky  veil  of  sorrow  glow 

Consoling  flashes  of  celestial  blue. 

(14) 

Alcides  once,  obeying  the  behest 

Of  an  unworthy  master,  went  in  quest 

Of  all  the  perils  which  on  life  attend; 
Strangled  the  lion,  laid  the  hydra  stark. 
Nor  feared  to  enter  Charon's  dreadful  bark. 

While  yet  in  life  to  liberate  his  friend. 


SCHILLER  169 

And  all  the  miseries  of  mankind  which  rack 

The  unforgiving  Goddess  loved  to  place 
Upon  her  enemy's  long-suffering  back 

Until  completed  was  his  earthly  race. 

(15) 

Until  the  God,  shedding  his  worldly  guise, 
Renounces  man,  and  seeks  the  flaming  skies, 

Quaffing  th'  entrancing  ether  at  its  birth, 
Eejoicing  in  his  new-born  power  of  flight, 
Upward  he  mounts,  and  up,  till  lost  to  sight 

Is  every  vision  which  recalls  the  earth. 
His  ears,  transfigured,  revel  in  the  strains 

Which  from  the  portals  of  Olympus  roll, 
And  with  a  just  relief  once  more  he  drains 

The  heavenly  nectar  from  a  heavenly  bowl. 

(A.-F.,  pp.  224-228.) 

Since  this  paper  is  written  chiefly  for  such  as 
have  little  or  no  German  at  their  command,  and 
considering  the  very  great  importance  to  the 
lover  of  poetry  and  moral  science  which  all  stu- 
dents claim  for  the  piece  under  discussion,  it 
seems  only  right  to  offer  a  quite  untechnical  eluci- 
datory paraphrase,  which  he  who  scorns  such  aids 
may  easily  omit. 

The  Ideal,  axd  Life. 

I.  Because  of  the  limits  set  us  by  our  organism, 
we  are  constantly  forced  to  a  sore  decision  be- 
tween alternatives,  which  are  both  in  their  way 
desirable. 

II.  Let  us  then  resolutely  elect  the  better,  how- 
ever dear  it  may  cost  us  to  forego  the  less  excel- 
lent. 

III.  Yet  man  can  even  now  (by  creative 
thought)  escape  his  impotence  and  insignificance, 


170  SCHILLER 

and  dwell  in  a  world  not  unlike  that  of  Plato's 
eternal  ideas:  the  world  of  philosophers,  sages, 
poets  and  mystics. 

IV.  Borne  thither,  we  are  privileged  to  behold 
the  Ideal  Man,  and,  for  our  spiritual  welfare,  the 
Victory  of  our  Cause. 

V.  Nor  is  this  entrance  into  a  "Kingdom  of 
the  Spirit"  meant  to  relax  our  efforts  on  earth, 
but  rather  to  renew  our  courage  and  increase  our 
strength. 

VI.  In  the  practical  world,  whether  in  sport  or 
in  earnest,  none  can  succeed  but  in  proportion  to 
strength,  skill  and  courage ;  and  it  is  well  so,  else 
should  weakness,  incompetency  and  cowardice  pre- 
vail. 

VII.  Yet  the  strong,  capable  and  brave  stand 
often  in  the  greatest  need  of  rest ;  of  realizing  the 
stillness  and  sweetness  that  characterize  the 
largest  life. 

VIII.  Let  no  artist  presume  on  his  easier  ac- 
cess to  the  world  of  the  imagination;  if  he  would 
glorify  the  ideal  he  beholds,  he  too  must  endure 
hardship. 

IX.  Should  he,  however,  lose  vision  and  confi- 
dence, he  may  behold  his  work,  perfect  already  in 
divine  pre-existence,  and  so  be  enabled  to  toil  on 
for  its  partial  realization  here  below. 

X.  [All  men  are  in  a  true  sense  artists  and 
poets  (endeavoring  to  create  a  poem: — their  life 
and  character)]  and  awful  indeed  is  for  them  the 


SCHILLER  171 

discovery  of  the  inevitable  discrepancy  between 
principle  and  performance. 

XI.  Yet  a  species  of  [Neo-Lutheran]  salvation 
by  faith  not  altogether  unlike  the  Doctrine  of  the 
Theologia  Germanica  and  the  preaching  of  Tau- 
ler,  can  afford  comfort  and  consolation;  for  by 
atonement  with  God  man  may  within  himself 
adore  his  God,  and  share  in  some  degree  His  bliss. 

XII.  Notwithstanding,  we  are  not  God,  and 
must  feel  the  woes  and  iniquities  of  our  fellow- 
men  ;  so  that  at  times  we  rebel,  till  our  very  desire 
to  be  at  one  with  God  will  fail  us. 

XIII.  Yet  we  learn  in  due  time,  that  out  of 
human  sin  and  woe  proceed  the  highest  good,  pur- 
ity and  bliss;  and  we  permit  suffering  and  an- 
guish to  be  transfigured  [as  in  hero  and  martyr] 
to  a  thing  divine ;  [in  which  God  claims  His  human 
share] . 

XrV.  So  at  least  the  old  Hellenic  Myth  would 
teach  us;  the  divine  man  was  persecuted  only  to 
challenge  the  God  in  him  to  fuller  manifestation. 

XV.  Which,  when  it  had  fully  taken  place,  rec- 
onciled mankind  to  his  passion  and  their  own. 

Now  lest  this  merely  utilitarian  prose  account 
should  not  suffice,  and  the  translation  of  Arnold- 
Forster  appear  too  Swinburnian  in  its  somnolent 
mellifluous  drift  nowhither,  between  silvery  wil- 
lows awave  in  twilight  mist ;  a  harder,  less  musical 
rendering  is  offered  the  patient  reader,  which  has 
been  attempted  on  purpose  for  his  possible  profit, 
although  we  fear  quite  doubtful  delectation.    Who- 


172  SCHILLER 

ever  enjoys  the  German  has  courteous  leave  to 
make  merry  at  its  infirmities,  or  to  pass  by  on  the 
other  side.  It  "claims"  nevertheless  to  be  reso- 
lutely close  to  the  original,  even  if  not  rarely  it 
must  entrust  the  associative  values  of  a  noun  to 
epithets  nowise  in  the  text;  and  seek  equivalents 
for  Teutonic  idioms  that  will  not  be  Englished 
without  too  great  violence  to  usage  and  the  trained 
ear. 

LIFE  AND  THE  IDEAL 


Forever  crystal-fair  and  zephyr-soft 

Life  glideth  calmly  by,  where  throned  aloft 

The  blessed  Gods  on  heights  Olympian; 
Moons  wax  and  wane, — folk-kindreds  come  and  go — 
But  still  the  roses  of  their  youth  do  blow 

Changeless  'mid  wrack  of  worlds.     Ah  me,  and  man 
Knows  the  choice  merely,  dubious  and  sad. 

Betwixt  a  thrill  of  sense  and  peace  of  soul! 
The  brows  of  the  high  Gods  alone  are  glad 

Of  the  twain  wedded  to  a  joyous  whole. 

II 

Would  ye,  6  sons  of  men,  already  be 

Like  to  the  Gods  in  Death's  dominion — free? 

Then  pluck  not  of  his  garden's  luring  fruit. 
On  the  fair  show  of  things  delight  your  eye; 
Possession  yieldeth  joys  that  straightway  die, 

Yea,  slayeth  sweet  desire  in  swift  pursuit. 
Even   Styx,  Demeter's  child  with  black  folds  nine 

Of  fathomless  stagnant  water,  could  not  hold; 
She  grasped  the  apple  and  therefore  must  she  pine. 

Chained  to  the  grisly  law  of  Orcus  cold. 

in 

Howbeit  the  powers,  that  weave  our  darkling  fate, 
Beyond  the  body  cannot  wreak  their  hate; 

Free  from  all  tyrannies  of  time  and  space, 
Playmate  of  hapny  sprites,  o'er  fields  of  day, 
Familiar  of  the  Gods,  divine  as  they. 

Form  moves  enhaloed  of  immortal  grace. 


^CHILLER  173 

Would  ye  soar  thither,  wafted  of  her  wings, 

Ev'n  now?     Forthwith,  earth's  fears  beneath  you  hurled. 

Breaking  the  clutch  of  narrow  dismal  things. 
Escape  from  life  into  the  Ideal  world! 

IV 

Young  always  yonder  bideth,  without  flaw 
Or  blemish  earthly — in   radiance  and  awe 

Of  perfect  bloom — the  form  of  Man  divine; 
As  fared  the  shades  by  Stygian  marges  dumb 
In  quiet  sheen  through  a  fabled  Elysium; 

Rather,  as  stood — the  azure  for  his  shrine — 
The  eternal  Soul  ere  to  the  fleshly  tomb 

She  made  descent  out  of  her  glorious  place, 
When  tremble  in  life  the  battle's  scales  with  doom, 
There  victory,  smiling,  greets  thee  face  to  face.' 

V 

Not  craven  limbs  to  rescue  from  the  strife. 
But  to  refresh  the  fainting  with  new  life, 

Doth  victory  wave  her  fragrant  garland  thus! 
Implacable,  howe'er  ye  yearn  for  rest. 
Life  hurtleth  you  on  her  steep-billowy  breast 

And  swift  time  swirleth  'rormd  ui)roariou3, 
But  should  your  courage  waver — her  quivering  wings 

Adroop  for  the  dread  sense  of  limits  dire — 
Look  up  unto  the  heights,  where  beauty  brings 

Your  spirits  to  their  goal,  and  dare  aspire! 

VI 

When  war  is  waged  for  lordship  or  defense — 
Champion  eyes  champion,  grappling  might  immense 

With  defter  might — at  fortune's  call   or  fame's — 
Bare  courage  copeth  ill  with  armed  force; 
Likewise  where  chariots  o'er  the  dust-choked  course 

Shatter  each  other  in  th'  heroic  games: 


"Dr.  Paul  Carus.to  whom  this  version  was  submitted  and  some 
of  whose  suggestions  were  accepted,  takes  decided  issue  here  as 
to  the  interpretation.  The  German  use  of  the  adjective  without 
Its  noun  renders  a  delightful  ambiguity  possible,  which  the  trans- 
lator is  obliged  to  resolve,  supplying  the  noun  he  supposes  to 
have  been  understood.  TTonce  natural  differences  of  opinion.  His 
emendation  runs  as  follows : 

Life's   phantoms   thus   by   Stygian   marges    dumb 
In   quiet   sheen    live   in   Eiysium. 

Thus,  too,  stood   she — the   azure   for  her  shrine 

The  Eternal  Goddess  ere   to  Pluto's   tomb 

She   made   descent   out   of  celestial   light. 
Doubtful   in   life  r-ma  ns   our  bn'tl*^'s   doom 

While  victory  here  is  always  within  sight. 


174  SCHILLER 

Valor  alone  can  wrest  him  prize  and  praise 
That  beckon  from  the  goal  attained;  alone 

The  strong  shall  master  fate,  and  all  his  days 
The  dastard  weakling  fall  and  fail  and  moan. 

VII 

Yet  see,  the  river  of  life,  tho'  hurling  fierce 
Torrents  of  foam  where  crags  close-hem  and  pierce 

His  stream,  doth  flow — smooth,  gentle,  sinuous — 
Thro'  visionary  calms  of  Beauty's  vale, 
Glassing  upon  his  silver  edges  pale 

Aurora  blithe,  or  twinkling  Hesperus. 
Dissolved  in  gracious  mutual  love,  and  bound 

Together  freely  in  bands  of  comeliness, 
Here  impulse  hath  and  passion  respite  found; 

And  foes  ban  ire,  sweet  fellowship  to  bless. 

VIII 

When  fashioning  genius  would  a  soul  create 
In  what  before  was  lifeless — fain  to  mate 

Pure  form  with  substance  at  his  urgent  will — 
Bid  manful  diligence  strain  every  nerve, 
Bid  courage  vanquish  matter,  till  it  serve. 

And  the  whole  purpose  of  the  Thought  fulfill: 
Only  stern  toil,  and  stubborn  quest  shall  hear 

The  murmured  runes  from  deep,  hid  wells  of  truth; 
Only  the  chisel's  valiant  stroke  lays  bare 

What  lurks  within  marble  block  uncouth. 

IX 

But  if  to  Beauty's  realm  thou  penetrate. 
Below  thee  tarrieth  sloth  and  leaden  weight 

Amid  the  dust,  and  the  heavy  clod  it  sways. 
Wrung  with  no  aching  toil  from  the  crude  mass 
Behold,  there, — sprung  from  nothing,  come  to  pass 

Even  to  herself — thy  Vision  beyond  praise! 
Quelled  be  thy  struggles,  all  thy  doubts  allayed 

In  a  serene  content  at  mastery  won; 
For  lo,  no  trace  remains  of  what  betrayed 

A  human  frailty  in  the  work  begun! 


Whenso  in  man's  poor  nakedness  ye  face 
The  majesty  of  law,  your  pride  abase; 

Guilt  even  to  the  holy  One  draws  nigh. 
Well  may  stout  virtue  quail  before  the  rays 
Of  steadfast  truth,  and  with  averted  gaze 


SCHILLER  175 

Your  deeds  avoid  perfection's  searching  eye. 
For  never  mortal  but  his  aim  did  miss. 

No  boat  rnay  ferry,  and  no  bridge  may  bear 
Over  yon  frightful  sundering  abyss; 

Nor  soundeth  anchor  its  swallowing  despair." 

XI 

Take  ye  then  sanctuary  from  imprisoning  sense 
In  the  far  freedoms  of  high  thought,  and  hence 

Hath  every  fear-begotten  phantom  flown; 
The  gap  'twixt  purpose  and  achievement  fills:  — 
Yea,  draw  the  Godhead  close  into  your  wills, 

And  he  forsakes  for  you  his  cosmic  throne. 
None  but  the  slave's  mind  feels  a  fettering  sway. 

Who  scorneth  of  the  law  its  chastening  rod; 
For  lo,  with  man's  resistance  passed  away 

The  awful  sovereignty  likewise  of  God. 

XII 

When  the  great  anguish  of  the  human  race 
Doth   harrow  you,   and  Laocoon's   tortured   face 

Of  dumb  woe,  choked  in  the  enclasping  snakes. 
Ye  front;   'tis  just  your  manhood  should  rebel. 
And  unto  heaven  proclaim  the  griefs  of  hell 

Until  your  heart  for  ruthful  sorrow  breaks. 
'Tls  well  that  Nature's  dreadful  voice  prevail. 

And  youth  grief-pallid  weep  with  blinded  eyes; 
That  pangs  of  death  your  deathless  Self  assail, 

Whilst  ye  for  fellow-feeling  agonize. 

XIII 

But  nevermore  In  yon  sun-happy  realm. 
Where  the  pure  Forms  abide,  shall  overwhelm 

The  mind  such  turbid  wash  of  human  woe. 
Not  here  may  pain  the  soul  with  grief  transpierce, 
Nor  blighting  tears  be  shed.     The  anguish  fierce 

Now  lives  but  in  the  spirit's  battle  glow; 
Lovely,  as  hover  shimmering  rainbow  hues 

Over  the  thunderous  rack  with  sprightly  glee; 
So  thro'  cloud-veils  of  moody  gloom  transfuse 

Bright  skies  of  cheer,  and  still  felicity! 


">  The   metaphor   is   In    the   last   line   resolved   by   the   translator 
Into   its   moral   consolation. 

"Nor  ever  anchor  soundoth  bottom  there" 
Is    a    more    literal    rendering.       So    in    the    next    stanza     (line    4) 
"twixt   purpose   and   achievement  "   are   supplied   to   malte   the   sense 
clearer — at    the    cost    no    doubt    of    some    mysterious   shudders. 


176  SCHILLER 

XIV 

This  lore  the  ancient  myth  to  all  made  plain; — 
How  Zeus  of  yore  did  Herakles  constrain 

To  serve  the  coward  and  bear  his  rule  unjust; 
Humbled  he  went  life's  footsore  ways,  and  fought 
Unceasing;   lion  and  hydra  slew,  and  wrought 

With  his  own  hands  huge  labors;  yea,  and  thrust 
His  body  quick  in  Charon's  doleful  bark 

To  loose  dear  friends.    Dire  plagues  and  burdens  great 
Hera  devised,  and  grievous  care  and  cark — 

But  ev'r  his  fortitude  outsped  her  hate: 

XV 

Until  his  course  was  run;  until  in  fire 
Stripping  the  earthly  raiment,  on  the  pyre 

The  God  breathed  freely  Empyrean  airs; 
Blithe-hearted  at  his  new-got  power  of  flight. 
Upward  he  soared  from  joyful  height  to  height, 

And  down  as  an  ill  dream  sank  earth's  dull  cares. 
Olympian  harmonies  the  Man  enfold. 

Transfigured  in  the  shining  hall  of  Zeus. 
With  smile  and  blush  the  Goddess,  see,  doth  hold 

To  his  lips  at  last  the  cup  of  heavenly  bliss.*^ 

The  poem  thus  concludes  with  a  noble  picture  of 
Herakles  (not  forgetful,  doubtless,  of  the  sig- 
nificant fact  that  he  is,  in  the  Enchiridion,  the 
mythological  type  which  Christian  editors  of  that 
Stoic  tract  replaced  by  the  name  of  Jesus).  We 
are  shown  how  that  human  son  of  Zeus  fought  his 
way  with  stubborn  courage  against  the  persecu- 
tion of  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  until  whatever  in 
him  was  earthly  perished  on  the  sacred  pyre; 
whereupon  the  goddess  (perchance  Hera  herself 
taking  Hebe's  room)  offered  him  the  cup  brim- 
ming with  the  nectar  of  the  gods. 

"  Should  the  rhyme  "Zeus" — "bliss"  give  offence,  we  offer  an 
alternate  rendering: 

Olympian   harmony    the   Man   enfolds 

In   th'   hall   of  Zeus  transfigured ;   ay,  and   I  see 
To  his  lips  with  smile  and  blush  the  Goddess  holds 
Her  nectar  cup  of   immortality ! 


SCHILLER  177 

So  we  conclude,  in  our  case  also,  if  heaven  op- 
pose, it  is  but  a  challenge,  a  veiled  invitation  to 
join  the  immortals  themselves.  Let  Herakles  en- 
courage the  victim  of  outrageous  fate,  to  attain  his 
destiny.  And  even  now — whatever  may  beyond 
death  await  him — there  is  instantaneous  admis- 
sion to  an  Olympian  peace — the  kingdom  of  imag- 
ination, the  ** realm  of  pure  form"  where  he  may 
dwell  as  freeman, — aye,  as  king, — while  enduring, 
perchance,  servitude  in  the  flesh  and  ignominious 
moral  defeat. 

What  the  prosaic  summation  of  this  remark- 
able poem's  doctrines  may  be,  each  competent 
reader  can  discern  now  for  himself.  For  the  sake, 
however,  of  his  integrity  of  thought,  let  us  pro- 
test in  advance  against  any  amiable  overhaste,  be- 
cause of  Schiller's  noble  attitude, to  denominate 
him  a  Christian  poet ;  unless,  as  the  loose  manner 
of  some  is,  any  moral  worth  and  spiritual  exalta- 
tion shall  be  accorded  that  dubiously  honest 
courtesy  by  our  liberal  Christendom. 

The  most  Schiller  has  to  say  of  immortality  is — 
that  we  seem  born  for  something  better : 

It  is  no  vain,  deluding  thought 

Which  from  disordered  fancy  springe; 

By  hope  our  hearts  are  plainly  taught 
That  we  arc  born  for  better  things. 

That  inAvard  voice,  if  we  believe. 
The  hoping  soul  will  not  deceive. 

(Hope,  A,-F.,  p.  265.) 

There,  too,  in  the  fourteenth  stanza  of  the  poem 
^' Resignation, "  we  are  distinctly  told  that  no  dea  1 
has  ever  returned  to  bear  witness  (cf.  st.  10,  1.  8, 


178  SCHILLER 

''Ideal  and  Life") :  exactly  the  opposite  of  what  is 
claimed  by  the  Christian  Scriptures.  And,  be  it 
noted,  the  "better  things  that  we  are  born  to" 
clearly  signifies  a  Stoic  elevation  here  and  now 
by  force  of  soul  above  the  chaos  of  fate,  from 
which  we  are  at  liberty  to  select  what  is  akin  to 
our  destiny  and  profits  and  ennobles  our  living 
spirit. 

This  is  a  doctrine  only  meet  for  such  as  be  very 
valiant:  prepared  for  abstinences,  inured  to  dis- 
ciplines, resolved,  if  need  were,  to  self-immolation ; 
who  dare  to  become  companions  in  deed  and  truth 
of  Herakles,  passing  with  him  from  their  sacri- 
ficial labors  into  the  heaven  of  triumphant  thought, 
upborne  by  the  very  flames  they  kindled  of  the 
world's  consuming  fire* 

IV. 

The  "Walk"  gives  an  account,  in  chatty  hex- 
ameters, of  the  charm  exercised  on  the  poet  by 
nature;  then  we  see  the  rise  of  the  city,  the  de- 
velopment of  human  solidarity,  the  successive  ap- 
pearance of  industry,  commerce,  art  and  science, 
followed  by  the  terrible  avatar  of  Liberty,  which, 
alas!  seems  to  imply  demoralization.  Then  we 
feel  the  dissolution  of  human  society  is  threat- 
ened, and  Schiller  takes  refuge  again  in  nature, 
which  becomes  a  sacrament  of  chaste  self-restraint 


*Cf.     Symbolism  of  Elijah's  chariot,  and  the  bolt  of  Zeus  upbear- 
ing CEdlpus  in  Sophocles'  CEdipus  Coloneus. 


SCHILLER  179 

and  restores  man  to  primitive  individual  inno- 
cence and  social  health. 

Much  more  has  been  made  of  this  poem  than 
we  think,  in  spite  of  the  beautiful  close,  is  its  real 
desert.  So  the  "Song  of  the  Bell"  also  appears 
to  have  been  much  overrated  as  philosophical 
poetry.  Far  more  significant  seem  to  us  the  series 
"Nenia,"  "The  Child  at  Play,"  "The  Sexes," 
"The  Dance,"  "Fortune,"  "Genius"  and  "The 
Philosophical  Egoist,"  of  which,  as  poetry,  we 
should  prefer  the  three  that  seem  to  continue  each 
other's  thought:  "The  Dance,"  "Fortune"  and 
"Genius".  "Nenia"  bids  us  think  it  no  poor  fate 
to  be  an  elegy  in  the  mouth  of  love;  "The  Child 
at  Play"  suggests  how  the  child  often  admon- 
ishes stern  duty  for  her  lack  of  joy  and  vital  cour- 
age; "The  Sexes"  set  forth  the  organic  mystery  of 
twofold  procreation  as  a  symbol  leading  to  a  com- 
prehension of  divine  love;*  "The  Dance"  illus- 
trates in  most  melodious  verse  that  perfect  re- 
pose which  is  the  ordered  motion  of  beautiful 
form,  the  explanation  of  which  mystery  is  the 
gracious  miracle  involved  in  the  dominion  of 
"Measure",  which  dominion  man,  alas!  in  his 
play  will  acknowledge,  and  yet  perversely  disown, 
— nay,  even  resist, — in  his  serious  avocations. 
Singularly  beautiful  is  the  noble  plea  in  "For- 
tune" that  we  recognize  the  favorites  of  the  gods 
without  envy, — accepting  them  as  partial  revela- 
tions of  the  divine  mind  and  heart.     "Genius" 


•Woman's  Worth,  A.  F.,  p.  262. 


180  SCHILLER 

celebrates  that  fortunate  man  whose  very  whim  is 
wisdom,  whose  irresjDonsible  play  turns  out  to  be 
supreme  achievement,  for  whom  patient  science 
and  our  proud  moral  disciplines  have  no  contribu- 
tion. Here,  in  the  close  of  the  poem,  do  we  come 
nearest  to  that  chief  Christian  conception  of  a 
'SSon  of  God" — the  divine  Child,  perfect  restorer 
of  the  race  to  a  more  than  Paradisaic  glory.  ''The 
Philosophic  Egoist"  serves  as  epilogue  to  our 
series,  showing  that  nature,  by  turn  both  mother 
and  child,  cannot  possibly  yield  her  inmost  secret 
to  that  philosopher  who  will  grant  no  rational 
value  or  loveliness  to  unselfish  impulses. 

This  remarkable  sequence  of  poems  in  unrhymed 
elegiacs  offers  little  difficulty  to  the  reader  who 
does  not  let  himself  be  lulled  into  unintelligence 
by  the  melody  of  rhythm.  They  do  not  (except 
toward  the  close  of  "Genius"  and  now  and  then 
in  "Fortune",  and  by  gradual  ascent  throughout 
to  the  end  of  "The  Dance")  rise  to  any  very  lofty 
mood  of  poetic  fury.  For  that  very  reason,  per- 
chance, they  will  serve  as  grateful  comment  on  the 
more  oracular  lyrics  in  which  the  white  heat  of 
divine  passion  has  fused  into  musical  phrase  the 
hard  definiteness  of  Schiller's  thought.  There  re- 
main two  more  pieces  that  must  be  painstakingly 
studied  by  any  who  would  form  a  correct  view  of 
Schiller's  position,  namely,  the  "Words  of  Faith" 
and  the  "Words  of  Error,"  which  we  reproduce 
here: 


SCHILLER  181 

THE  WORDS  OF  FAITH 


Three  words  of  significant  import  I  name, 
And  the  lips  to  each  other  impart; 

From  no  indiscriminate  sources  they  came, 
But  their  origin  have  in  the  heart; 

And  unless  these  words  form  part  of  his  creed, 

Man  is  a  pitiful  creature,  indeed. 


Man  was  created,  and  man  is   free, 

No  matter  if  born  in  chains; 
Let  the  cry  of  the  rabble  pass  over  thee, 

And  the  howl  of  extravagant  swains! 
Of  no  free  man  stand  thou  in  fear, 
Nor  of  slave  who  has  conquered  a  free  career. 

S. 

And  Virtue   is  more  than   an  echoing  call, 

For  it  serves  man  day  by  day; 
And,  though  he  may  blunder  and  stumble  and  fall, 

He  can  aim  at  the  virtuous  way; 
And  what  from  the  wiseacre  oft  is  concealed 
Is  as  oft  to  the  soul  of  the  simple  revealed. 

4. 

And  a  God  there  is,  whose  will  compels 

The  wavering  mind  of  man; 

And  thought  of  the  loftier  order  swells 

Beyond  time's  wildest  ken. 
Though  the  world  in  eternal  vicissitude  roll. 
There  is  ever  repose  for  the  peaceable  soul. 


Preserve  these  three  great  words  that  I  name. 

One  lip  to  another  impart; 
Though  not  from  extraneous  sources  they  came. 

But  their  origin  have  in  the  heart. 
So  long  as  these  words  form  part  of  his  creed, 
Man  is  a  creature  of  worth,  indeed. 


182  SCHILLER 

THE  WOEDS  OF  EREOB 

1. 

Three  words  of  significant  meaning  there  are 
In  the  mouths  of  the  wisest  and  best, 

Yet  vainly  they  echo,  like  tones  from  afar, 
And  yield  no  assistance  or  rest. 

Man  forfeits  the  fruits  he  could  lightly  attain 

If  after  impalpable  shadows  he  strain. 


So  long  as  he  pictures  a  glorious  age, 

Rejoicing  in  honor  and  right — 
Those  gifts  will  assuredly  combat  engage 

With  a  foe  who  forever  will  fight. 
Thou  must  at  him  in  air,  for  a  contact  with  earth 
Supplies  to  his  force  a  regenerate  birth. 

3. 

So  long  as  he  thinks  that  success  will  attend 

On  nobility's  conduct  and  aims — 
He  will  find  that  she  looks  upon  wrong  as  a  friend, 

That  the  world  what  is  worthy  disclaims. 
A  wanderer  he,  and  his  duty  to  roam. 
To  discover  elsewhere  an  immutable  home. 


So  long  as  he  dreams  that  the  reason  of  man 

Can  with  absolute  verities  close — 

He  will  find  an  abyss  which  no  mortal  can  span; 

We  can  but  assume  and  suppose. 
In  a  word,  it  is  true,  thou  canst  prison  the  mind, 
But  it  surges  away  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 


Then  hasten  thy  soul  from  illusions  to  wean, 

And  a  higher  religion  endue! 
What  the  ear  never  heard,  and  the  eye  has  not  seen, 

Remains  what  is  lovely  and  true! 
It  is  not  abroad,  as  the  foolish  contends; 
'Tis  within,  and   upon  thine  own   ardor  depends. 

The  "Words  of  Faith"  affirm  that:  freedom 
of  the  quick  mind,  unwearied  struggling  for  the 
divine  in  the  simple  spirit  of  the  little  child,  and 


SCHILLER  183 

to  hold  steadfast  above  him  ever  as  "truly  exist- 
ent" the  "highest  thought"  he  can  think;  these 
are  the  fiats  of  the  sane  and  saving  faith.  Hav- 
ing firm  hold  of  such  faith,  one  will  be  able  surely 
to  abstain  from  gross  joy,  and  rest  content  in  the 
stillness  above  the  tumult  of  desire.  The  '  *  Words 
of  Folly"  (rather  than  Error)  are  the  supposi- 
tion of  a  bygone  or  future  golden  age;  of  luck 
apportioned  providentially  in  this  (or  any  other) 
world  according  to  desert  (poetic  justice,  so 
called) ;  and  last  (if  not  least)  the  arrogant  as- 
sumption that  any  human  theory  will  at  any  time 
compass  the  exactitude  of  a  theometry  (to  quote 
Eossetti's  clever  coinage  in  "Soothsay") ;  for  only 
the  unseen  and  the  unheard  is  the  lovely  and  the 
true. 


"It  is  not  without,  for  the  fool  seeks  it  there; 
Within  thee  it  flourishes,  constant  and  fair.' 


• 


Now,  then,  the  remainder  of  the  lyric  poems  are, 
for  our  purposes,  relatively  negligible.  Except  the 
following  two  epigrams  from  the  "Votive  Tab- 
lets" they  are  unnecessary  for  a  clear  perspective. 
These  we  will  quote : 

All  may  share  thy  thoughts:  thine  own  is  only  thy  feeling, 
Wouldst  thou  own  him,  feel,  do  not  imagine,  thy  God. 

(A.-F.,  p.  310.) 

Otherwise  rendered,  for  greater  faithfulness' 
sake: 

What  thou  thinkest  is  common  to  all;  thine  own  is  thy  feeling. 
Wouldst   thou   make  him   thy  own — feel  then   the  God  thou 
hast  thought. 

•Bowring's  version  of  the  closing  couplet  of  "Words  of  Error." 


184  SCHILLER 

After  this  first,  which  speaks  for  itself,  con- 
sider the  following: 

What  religion  I  own?  thou  askest: — None  of  thy  naming. 
Why?  thou  askest  again: — Why,  for  religion  itaelf.     (A-P.,  p. 
313.) 

Less  gracefully,  perhaps : 

What    religion    do    I    embrace?      Well,    none    thou    hast    men- 
tioned. 
Wherefore,  none  of  them  all?    Even  for  religion's  sake. 

From  these  two  epigrams  we  gather,  if  we  take 
them  seriously,  that,  whatever  dogma  Schiller 
might  have  put  forth,  he  himself  would  have  found 
his  very  own  merely  in  the  quite  incommunicable 
states  of  feeling  associated  therewith — half  vi- 
brant overtones  and  undertones — mystic  seolian 
harmonies ;  further,  that  for  the  sake  of  the  spon- 
taneous reality  of  his  religion,  he  could  not  ac- 
cept even  his  very  own,  if  presented  to  him  in  the 
hard  objective  form  s;iipplied  by  a  scholastic  elab- 
oration, or  a  series  of  historical  experiments  by 
the  method  of  trial  and  failure  such  as  the  Chuj'ch 
has  set  forth  through  her  counciliar  decrees. 

And  this  have  all  the  poet-prophets  from  the 
beginning  declared  with  a  singular  unanimity, 
differing  in  all  else.  Here  invariably  do  they  part 
company  (not  at  times  sans  sorrow)  with  the  posi- 
tive dogmatist  (orthodox  alike  and  heterodox) ; 
to  ally  themselves  to  the  mystics,  however  dis- 
reputable, who,  whatever  their  self-supposed  con- 
victions of  a  communicable  sort,  by  making  God 
one  with  their  will,  find  him  in  experience  conde- 
scending to  unity  with  their  conscious  spirit ;  and 


SCHILLER  185 

who  make  no  effort  to  render  a  rational  account 
of  what  bef  alleth  their  spirits  rapt  into  tlie  heaven 
of  adoring  vision  and  direct  knowing  of  God. 

For  Schiller  the  "highest  thought"  was  the  in- 
tellectual symbol;  and  the  "little  child"  or  the 
"genius"  the  human  symbol  of  deity.  For  Schil- 
ler, such  a  rapture  of  faith  as  his  was  more  than 
compensation  for  all  sacrifices  required,  from  the 
neophyte's,  even  to  the  initiate's  into  the  supreme 
mysteries  of  life.  For  Schiller,  Science  and  mor- 
ality were  but  scaffoldings  necessary  for  the  re- 
ligious man  in  his  irreligious  hours  that  he  may 
then  also  approach  the  stuff  of  his  life  and  aid  in 
its  taking  the  divine  form. 

But  there  is  for  Schiller  no  one  pattern.  Each 
must  yearn  to  "the  whole;" — and  each,  if  he 
would  resemble  the  highest,  must  strive  to  become 
completely  himself,*  and  establish  straightway  his 
present  freedom  in  the  ideal,**  ere  fate  makes 
him  adventure  into  the  future  dark  of  death. 

V. 

How  easy  for  the  reader  to  cry  * '  and  is  this  all  1 ' ' 
What  new  thing  has  your  seer  beheld,  that  his 
poems  should  by  a  whole  people  be  felt  to  have 
the  authority  almost  of  Scripture?  Here  then  do 
we  come  again  upon  what  constitutes  the  very 
essential  preciousness  of  religious  poetry,  mean- 

•Votlve  Tablets.     Duty  of  all  and  a  problem,     pp.  309-319. 
••Die  Idealische  Freihelt. 


186  SCHILLER 

ing  thereby  such  poetry  as  proceeds  from  a  spon- 
taneous individually  experienced  religion. 

The  man  is  always  more  than  the  sum  of  his 
deeds,  of  his  sayings,  and  of  the  accidents  that 
befell  him.  The  hero  outlives  many  on  account  of 
his  service,  many  a  poetic  or  dogmatic  apotheosis 
of  his  person.  So  likewise  the  poem.  It  has  a 
right  to  be  accredited  also  with  all  that  its  power 
of  suggestion  may  yet  legitimately  bring  to  any 
human  spirit.  With  no  one  reader  even  does  any 
reading,  however  deeply  felt,  exhaust  for  all  time 
its  content.  Other  readings  at  other  seasons  will 
overshadow  him,  to  his  delighted  surprise,  with 
hitherto  undivined  hallowings  of  soul. 

What  then  ?  Will  you  undertake  to  confute  the 
poet-prophet  ?  If  you  do,  he  but  eludes  you.  You 
meet  him  even  in  the  precincts  you  thought  he, 
heretic  that  he  is,  might  not  be  allowed  to  pro- 
fane. Behold  him  there  throned  as  the  very  sym- 
bol of  the  deity  you  intended  to  adore  in  your 
self-righteous  solitude  and  uniqueness! 

And  perhaps  Schiller's  greatness  consists  after 
all  in  just  that  power  of  uttering  himself  with  a 
thrilling  earnestness,  while  yet  always  reserving 
for  his  words  a  breadth  of  possible  application, — 
never  quite  narrowing  his  stated  principles  to  the 
suggestive  text  or  the  particular  dramatic  sym- 
bol;— ^leaving  them  to  adopt  for  the  reader  in  his 
own  meditation  other  more  sympathetic  expres- 
sions, confident  that  they  must  in  the  end  return 
for  the  happiest  local  instance  and  poetic  present- 


SCHILLER  187 

ment   to   the   text  or   dramatic   symbol   Schiller 
adopted. 

Hence,  after  four  generations  of  reading,  Schil- 
ler has  lost  no  freshness;  and  even  to  such  of  us 
as  would  in  cold  blood  disagree  with  his  doctrine, 
his  lyric  utterance  continues  to  have  human  poig- 
nancy, and  the  most  convincing  and  persuasive 
power.  Blessed  surely  are  the  Germans  who  love 
Schiller,  and  who  have  the  world's  only  Schiller 
to  love! 


GOETHE  AS  POET-PROPHET.* 


After  Matthew  Arnold,  who  will  record  his 
private  opinions  and  feelings  unwarily  on  so  mon- 
opolized a  topic  as  Translation?  Yet  an  ordinary 
lover  of  literature  will  be  pardoned  for  having  his 
fling  at  the  long-eared,  grey-felled,  surefooted 
word-for-worders?  Browning,  somewhat  sensitive 
and  not  without  reason,  took  keen  delight  in  quot- 
ing a  classical  criticism  of  the  criminal  ^schylean 
obscurity?  But  as  a  schoolboy,  having  patiently 
employed  dear  old  Robert's  transyllabification  as 
a  crib,  methinks  it  were  not  amiss  to  make  the 
punishment  fit  the  crime,  if  King  Minos  should 
doom  ^schylus  for  so  grievous  a  sin  of  obscurity, 
by  way  of  all-sufficient  atonement,  to  use  his  own 
"Agamenmon"  once  only  as  a  crib  to  Robert 
Browning's! 

And  now  Goethe — quite  generally  admitted  to 
be  fourth  among  the  immortals — must  be  En- 
glished, and  this  German  God  of  poetry  is  not  al- 
ways instantly  transpicuous. 

Thank  heaven,  so  far  no  Browning  has  offered 
himself  for  the  adventure.  But  our  own  Bayard 
Taylor — traveler  and  pleasant  singer — for  all  his 
American  optimism  deeming  it  possible  that  Eng- 

•Cf.     Poetry  and  Life;  a  Reading  List.     Univ.  of  Chi.  Press,  '06. 

188 


GOETHE  189 

lish  should  follow  foot  by  foot  the  metaphysical 
postures  and  verbal  contortions  of  New  High  Ger- 
man, for  all  his  eager  ingenuity  and  fine  crafts- 
man's mastery  of  diction  and  rhythm — how  has 
our  brave  Bayard  fared  in  the  fray? 

Eemembering  my  trials  as  devoted  initiator 
into  the  Faustian  mysteries,  I  dare  to  put  a  lead- 
ing question: — would  the  student  (of  little  Ger- 
man usually,  and  perhaps  less  English)  make  ex- 
alted sense  at  critical  spots  out  of  the  scholarly 
version  of  our  faithful  verse-for-verser  and  foot- 
for-footer,  did  not  the  aforesaid  student  have  at 
his  elbow  that  gay  scapegrace  of  a  paraphrast, 
Dr.  John  Anster,  who  skips  irresponsibly  from 
dizzy  height  to  height,  and  that  spinsterly  correct 
Miss  Swanwick  reared  to  breathe  the  common  air 
lOn  the  homelier  sea-level  of  well-bred  discourse? 

How  difficult  the  task  of  rendering  Goethe's 
easy  yet  tense,  precise  yet  suggestive,  idiomatic 
yet  elegant  verse  into  English  that  shall  have  the 
poetic  cadence  and  verbal  association,  together 
■\^^th  the  accurate  sense  and  equivalent  sentiment ! 
Who,  more  cheerfully  ready  to  affirm  this  than 
one  who  has  himself  attempted  the  undertaking? 

Without  further  apologies,  therefore,  let  the  re- 
mainder of  our  space  be  occujoied  by  a  few  haz- 
arded translations  which  will,  taken  together  and 
in  their  order,  provide  a  sur^^'ey  of  the  world  and 
man  and  God  from  Goethe's  own  chosen  point  of 
view. 

As  no  lines  lie  ever  penned  have  impressed  the 


190  GOETHE 

world  more  than  the  last  two  of  *' Faust,"  nor 
caused  more  controversy,  we  shall  assume  that 
they  meant  more  than  meets  the  ear.  For  why  in 
the  name  of  sense  or  justice  should  the  "woman 
soul ' '  be  credited  with  so  much,  and  equally  nota- 
ble Ewig  Mdnnliclie,  as  Nietzsche  mischievously 
puts  it,  be  so  cruelly  bereft  of  honor  due?  Since, 
however,  Das  Ewig  Weibliche  has  actually  served 
to  test  the  poetic  soul  of  the  man;  he  betraying 
his  own  deepest  self  in  his  manner  of  envisaging 
that  portentous  miracle— the  ''eternal  feminine" 
—we  shall  do  well  to  quote,  in  full,  Goethe's 
''Wanderer"  with  "The  Wayfarer"  for  caption. 
Indeed  the  poem  is  his  Madonna.  From  among 
the  ruins  of  a  glorious  past,  babe  at  breast,  she 
appears  to  rest  and  refresh  him,  full  of  grace, 
with  her  simple  girlish  naturalness;  and  to  offer 
him  unasked  the  bread  of  life:  faith,  that  is  to 
say,  in  the  external  fitness  of  nature's  inhuman 
ways  of  dealing  with  her  noblest  product — man. 

DER  WANDERER 
The  Wayfarer 
Wayfarer — 

Hail,  and  God  bless  thee, 

Young  mother,  and  the  little  one, 

The  son  at   thy  breast! 

Let  me  drop  at  the  rock-wall  here 

In  the  elm  tree's  shadow 

My  burden   down. 

And  rest  me  beside  thee. 

Young  Mofher — 

What  craft  can  drive  thee 
Thro '  the  heat  of  the  day  thus 
Up  the  dusty  path  hither? 
Bearest  wares  from  the  town 
Through  the  country-side? 


GOETHE  191 

Thou  sniilost,  stranger, 
At  this  my   question  ? 

Wayfarer — 

No  wares  from  the  town  have  I  brought. 
Cool  now  grows  the  evening. 
Show  me  to  the  well-spring 
Whereat   thou   drinkest, 
Gracious  new-wed  wife! 

Young  Mother — 

This  way,  up  the  rock-path. 
Go  before  me!     It  leadeth 
Through  the  shrubberies  thick 
Unto   the   well-spring 
Whereof  I  drink. 

Wayfarer — 

Tokens  of  ordering  human  hands 
Betwixt   the  bushes  appear. 
These  stones  be  not  of  thy  building, 
Prodigal-handed  Nature! 

Young  Mother — 

Up  further,  and  on! 

Wayfarer — 

Lo,  covered  with  moss,  an  architrave  I 

I  know  thee,  fashioning  mind 

Again, — thy  seal  in  the  hewn  rock  deep-set. 

Young  Mother — 

Press  onward,  stranger! 

Wayfarer — 

Inscriptions  whereon  I  trample, 

Alas,    illegible! 

Away  are  ye  flown, 

Deep   graven   words, — 

Ye  that  to  thousand  generations 

Should  your  master's  worship  shoTf. 

Young  Mother — 

Starest  thou,  wondering 
At  this  stone,  stranger! 
Farther  up  about  my  cot 
Full  many  stones  lie. 

Wayfarer — 
Yonder  t 


192  GOETHE 

Young  Mother — 

Close  at  thy  left 

Up  thro'  the  thick  bushes,—* 

Herel 

Wayfarer — 

Ye  muses  and  graces! 

Young  Mother — 

This  is  my  cottage. 

Wayfarer — 

Ruins  of  a  temple! 

Young  Mother — 

Down  the  slope  this  way 
Up-welleth  the  spring 
Whereof  I  drink. 

Wayfarer — 

Aglow  still  hoverest  thou 
Over  thy  grave-mound, 
Genius;   albeit  on  thee 
Hath  crashed  and  crumbled 
Thy  masterwork, 
Undying  spirit! 

Young  Mother — 

Stay,  the  while  I  fetch  the  cup 
That  thou  mayest  drink. 

Wayfarer — 

Ivy  hath  clothed  about 

Thy  godlike  structure  tall. 

How  ye  yearn  upward 

Out  of  the  wreckage, 

Ye  pillars  twain     .... 

And  thou,  too,  lonesome  sister! 

How  ye  together. 

Mournful  moss  on  your  hallowed  heads, 

In  grief  majestical  look  down. 

Beholding  the  prostrate  pillars 

At  your  feet  broken, 

Your  kith  and  kin! 

Of  the  tangled  bramble-bushes  shadowed, 

Eubbish  and  earth  half  hide  them; 

And  the  gaunt  grass  stalks  over  them! 

Dost  thou  thus  scorn,  O  Nature, 

Thy  noblest  creature's  noblest  work! 

Shatterest  thou  so 

Thy  holy  of  holies,  to  plant  there 

The  dock  and  the  darnel? 


GOETHE  193 

Young  Mother — 

How  he  sleeps,  my  baby  boy! 
Wilt  rest  thee,  stranger, 
In  our  cottage! 
Or  wouldst  rather 
Here  in  the  open  tarry? 
Cool  it  is.     Take  thou  the  boy 
The  while  I  fetch  thee  water. 
Sleep,  my  darling,  sleep! 

Wayfarer — 

Sweet  is  thy  rest! 

On  heavenly  seas  of  health 

Afloat,  tranquil  he  breathes! 

Thou,  born  among  the  remnants 

Of  a  holy  long-gone  past, 

May  its  spirit  breathe  on  thee! 

For  whom  it  halloweth,  he, 

As  the  gods  in  self-knowledge,  shall  thrill 

With  the  gladness  of  day  after  day. 

Unfold,  thou  swelling  bud! 

Loveliest  gem  adorning 

White-shimmery  spring, 

Outshine  thy  fellows; 

Then  may  the  full  fruit  rise 

Out  of  thy  bosom 

And  ripen  to  sunward! 

Young  Mother — 

God  bless  him!    Still  he  sleepeth? 
Naught  have  I  more  than  homely  bread 
To  offer  thee,  with  the  cool  spring-water. 

Wayfarer — 

My  heartfelt  thanks. 

How  all  about  doth  put  forth  bloom  and  leaf  I 

W^hat  verdure! 

Young  Mother — 

Soon  from  the  field 

My  husband  homo 

Will  come.     O,  staj^  friend,  stay, 

And  share  with  us  the  evening  meal. 

Wayfarer — 

And  here — ye  dwell? 

Young  Mother — 

Yonder  among  the  toppled  walls 
My  father  lived  to  build  the  cottage 
Of  tiles   and  of  the  ruin's  stones. 


194  GOETHE 

Here — do  we  dwell. 

To  a  husband  he  gave  me,  and  breathed 

His  last  soon  in  our  arms     .     .     . 

Hast  slept  thy  fill,  sweetheart? 

How  merry,  see,  and  fond  of  play! 

Wee  rogue! 

"Wayfarer — 

Nature,  forever  budding,  each 

Hast  fashioned  to  the  joy  of  life, 

Purveying  as  mother  true 

To  every  child  a  home  for  heritage. 

High  buildeth  the  swallow 

Under  the  eaves,  unwitting 

"What  chiselled  grace  she  bedaubs; — 

About  the  golden  bough  her  brood's 

Winter  abode,  the  canker  worm 

Spinneth;  and  thou,   'mid  ruins  august 

Of  the  long-gone  past,  0  man, 

For  thy  bare  needs 

Buildest  thy  patch-work  cot; — 

And  hast  over  graves — thy  joy! 

Farewell,  0   happy  wife. 

Young  Mother — 

Thou  wilt   not  tarry? 

Wayfarer — 

God  keep  you  twain 
And  bless  your  boy. 

Young  Mother — 
God  speed  thee. 

Wayfarer — 

Whither  o'er  yonder  hUl 
Will  the  path  take  me? 

Young  Mother — 
To  Cuma. 

Wayfarer — 

And  how  far  thither? 

Young  Mother — 

Three  miles  or  more. 

Wayfarer — 
Farewell. 

Oh,  lead  my  steps, 
Nature, — the  stranger's 


GOETHE  195 

Wayfaring  foot, 

Which  o'er  the  graves 

Of  a  hallowed  long-gone  age 

Wendeth  care  free, — 

To  a  place  of  safety 

From  north  winds  sheltered, 

By  a  poplar  copse 

From  the  noon-sun  screened; — 

And,  when  homeward  I  turn 

At  eventide 

To  my  hut  in  the  last  ray  golden — 

May  such  a  wife  there  bid  me  welcome, 

Our  infant  son  in  her  arms! 

We  have  now  seen  (and  we  trust  with  Goethe's 
**eye  serene")  ''the  very  pulse  of  the  machine" 
and  thereby  known  it  to  be  spirit  and  not  as 
"Wordsworth  makidroitly  for  rhyme's  sake  puts  it 
— mechanism.  Therefore,  like  Wordsworth's 
more  fortunate  highland  girl,  she  haunts  us  ever 
— and  becomes  unwittingly  symbol  and  worship. 

From  Die  Nektar  Tropfen,  the  first  portion  of 
Der  Deutsche  Parnass  and  his  great  Zueignung 
(for  which  let  the  English  reader  eke  out  his 
Bowring  to  his  heart's  content — or  othei-wise) 
we  can  gather  how  noble  a  vocation  and  grace  of 
God  art  seems  to  our  Olympian. 

Art — that  noblest  gift  of  all 

»*»»«♦ 

Words  as  poet 's  arms  are  made, — 

When   the  god   will  bo  obeyed, 
Follow  fast  his  darts  erelong 

»«»♦»» 

That  blest  one  will  be  safe  from  every  ill, 
Who  takes  this  gift  with  soul  of  purity: 
The  veil  of  minstrelsy  from  truth's  own  hand. 

But  right  here  let  us  note  how  it  is  the  Poetry 
not  of  irresponsible  fiction,  but  of  insight,  intelli- 
gent memoiy  and  relevant  fancy  which  he  would 


19G  GOETHE 

give  us;  and  that  he  would  have  this  poetry  ra- 
tionally employed  to  supplement  the  natural  goods 
of  life. 

Come,  then,  my  friends,  and  whensoe'er  ye  find 
Upon  your  way  increase  life's  heavy  load; 

If  by  fresh-wakened  blessings  flowers  are  twined 
Around  your  path,  and  golden  fruits  bestowed, 

We'll  seek  the  coming  day  with  joyous  mind! 

For  though  he  unflinchingly  fronts  the  evil,  no 
pessimist  is  Goethe.  Old,  solitary — but  for  his 
daughter-in-law  Ottilie  and  her  offspring — he 
''loved"  still,  at  fourscore,  "the  sweet  habit  of 
living  and  doing  things"  and  declared  that  life 
was  "like  the  Sybilline  books — the  fewer  the 
leaves  left,  the  more  precious." 

His  optimism,  however,  is  not  due  to  disceraing 
goods  that  escape  the  pessimist's  view,  but  to 
his  own  deliberate  and  successful  contribution  of 
mind  and  heart  unto  that  whole  of  which  he  is  a 
creative  part.  The  world  and  fate  are  but  half 
human.  It  is  man  should  harmonize  them  for 
himself.  And  this  humanizing  of  the  world  and 
fate  by  man  is  Art. 

Now,  artist  though  he  is,  owing  no  fealty  to 
moral  law  as  pious  tradition  or  social  convention, 
Goethe  comes  nevertheless  to  know  it  and  honor 
it  as  inherent  in  the  Artist's  work,  and  vital  to 
the  Artist's  noblest  manhood. 

NATUE  UND  KUNST 
Art  and  Nature 

Nature  and  Art  still  shun  each  other's  sight, 
Yet   mate   as  fellows,   ere   one   wotteth   well. 

My  stubborn  mood  hath  long  since  left  me  quite; 
So,  which  most  draweth  me  I  scarce  may  tell. 


GOETHE  107 

Thero  ncfrls  must  be  a  strait  and  true  endeavor: 
But,  the  full  dole  once  paid — of  life  we  owe, 

Bound  mind  and  will  as  thralls  of  Art  forever, 
Fiercely  at  heart  as  erst  may  Nature  glow! 

Like   token   markoth  every  high  emprise. 

All  spirits  imdisciplined  strove  in  vain  to  stand 
Where  heights  of  pure  perfection  reach  the  skies. 

Who  great  things  would,  shall  hold  his  soul  in  hand. 

Only  self-mastered  may  man  master  be, 
And  law  fulfilled,  alone  can  speak  us  free! 

Artist,  Vv'illi  this  resolute  devotion,  Goetlie  must 
go  on  to  ciiscover  the  law  of  life  from  a  more  gen- 
eral sui^vey  than  his  own  individual  life  and  lot 
permit.  Hence,  for  his  times  most  comprehensive 
and  audacious  scientific  studies,  which  made  of 
him  the  first  Poet  of  Evolution,  Imowing  in  him- 
self whereof  he  spake  and  sang.  Die  Metamor- 
pJiose  der  Pflanzen  and  Die  Metamorphose  der 
Thiere  set  forth  his  notions  of  species,  and  their 
relation,  and  the  wider  law  underlying  their  dis- 
tinctness and  affinity.  The  first  of  these  didactic 
pieces  was  translated  by  Bowring  and  so  we  will 
extract  from  the  second  the  broad  principle 
Goethe  discerned. 

Nevertheless  within,  the  might  of  the  worthier  creatures 
FJndeth  itself  close  girt  by  a  round  of  living  formation; 
Borders   no  God  may  enlarge,   which  Nature  revereth: 
For,  such   limits  alone  make  possible  any   perfection! 

•  »♦»»• 

May  this  noble  conception  of  might  and  restraint  and  of  self- 
will 

And  law,  and  of  freedom  and  bounds,  and  of  order  in  motion, 

Lack  and  advantage, — rejoice  thee;  for  hearken,  the  holy 

Muse  doth  teach  it  thee  thus  with  gentle  insistence. 

Higher  conception  no  ethical  thinker  attnineth; 

None  the  man  of  affairs,  at  his  craft  no  fashioning  artist. 

Rulers  thence,  worthy  of  rule,  the  pleasure  draw  of  their 
sceptre! 


198  GOETHE 

Highest  Creation  of  Nature,  rejoice  that  thou  feelest  thee  able 
Thinking,  her  loftiest  thought  to  o'ertake,  whereto  in  creating 
She    herself    upsoared;    there   plant    thee,    and    thence    let    thy 

glances 
Backward  sweep,  make  proof,  and  compare,  and  take  from  the 

Muse 's 
Mouth  (that  thou  see,  nor  be  drunken,)  this  full  truth,  certain 

and  gracious! 

In  such  wise,  then,  Goethe,  the  artist  and  scien- 
tist, became  the  moralist — the  attainment  of  one's 
own  completest  life  and  lot  requiring  impartially 
of  every  aspirant  for  perfection  much  more  than 
the  external  law  had  required  for  the  sake  of 
others  (less,  however,  the  sense  of  humiliated  ac- 
ceptance of  coercion  from  without) — since  he  dis- 
covered the  law  himself  and  on  his  own  behalf,  as 
innate  in  the  actual  constitution  and  vital  neces- 
sity and  his  very  being. 

in. 

So  little  was  Goethe  inclined  to  waste  creative 
energy  in  criticism  that  the  religious  protest  of  his 
soul,  though  ethically  vigorous,  got  scanty  ex- 
pression. He  began  a  dramatic  poem  **  Prome- 
theus"— ^which  for  some  reason  or  other  remained 
a  fragment.  Perhaps  the  torso  was  in  this  case 
more  satisfying  than  the  completed  statue  prom- 
ised to  be.  He  was  too  cultivated  and  self-scep- 
tical to  mistake  the  bow  of  Iris  and  Noah's  post- 
diluvian discovery  for  a  substantial  modern  Bi- 
frost  over  which  across  the  sundering  gap  he 
might  lead  his  people,  even  such  as  they  were, 
into  a  new  Walhalla.    He  was,  by  a  rational  habit 


GOETHE  199 

of  soul,  and  a  wide  acquaintance  with  the  philo- 
sophic and  iDoetic  past,  wholly  unable  to  mount 
like  Shelley,  and  whirl  us  along  with  him  in  a 
cloud  of  phrase  and  rhythm  through  nebulous 
luminosity  into  the  ''intense  inane"  and  then  mis- 
take the  mystic  individual  rapture,  however  in- 
fectious, for  an  effective  social  salvation!  So, 
Prometheus,  the  rebel,  was  the  utmost  the  theme 
could  yield  to  Goethe. 

What  does  man  owe  to  God — God  as  a  being 
and  consciousness  apart  from  man's  own?  Noth- 
ing. That  external  non-human  God — if,  indeed, 
he  be  at  all — is  strangely  ineffective  and  non- 
committal. If  that  God  then  be,  in  very  truth,  he 
is  ever  like  man,  fashioned  by  omnipotent  time 
and  by  eternal  fate — subject  to  the  same  univer- 
sal laws.  So  let  man  thank  not  that  unhelpful 
hypothetical  Being — ^but  himself — his  virtue,  his 
natural  strength,  his  imagination,  reason  and 
will!  Finely  is  this  human  protest  uttered  (and 
we  should  be  tempted  to  say  finally)  in  Goethe's 
''Prometheus,"  Nor  does  Bowring's  translation 
call  seriously  for  much  amendment.  If,  however, 
*'God"  be  taken  as  the  collective  expression  for 
"the  gods" — the  natural  powers  without  and 
within  man — they  do  not  have  any  claim  on  man's 
love.  Let  him  fear  them — use  them  and  never 
cease  to  consider  their  devious  ways.  The  chorus 
put  in  the  mouths  of  the  Parcas  at  the  end  of  the 
fourth  act  of  Iphigenia,  for  which  Miss  Swan- 
wick's  translation  is  clearly  the  best  extant,  sets 


200  GOETHE 

forth  magnificently  their  utter  inhumanity.  If 
ethics  be  theirs,  then  is  the  principle  of  their 
ethics  for  man  totally  undiscoverable  and  un- 
worthy of  respect : — 

Whom  they  have  exalted 
Let  him  fear  them  most. 

God  as  a  transcendental  omnipotent  providential 
Father,  and  God  as  a  gracious  divine  fellowship 
of  kindly  disposed  patrons,  are  bravely  denied 
then  to  exist ;  and  what  is  in  their  stead  to  the  eye 
critically  schooled  cannot  have  any  just  right  to 
man's  veneration  and  grateful  self-subjection. 

Ah,  ye  Gods,  ye  mighty  Gods 
In  the  wide  heaven  over  us. 
Would  ye  grant  us  here  on  earth 
Stalwart  mind  and  cheerful  heart, 
Gladly  would  we  leave  to  you, 
O,  ye  good,  your  heaven  above! 

And  this  little  ironical  piece  he  entitles  Men- 
schengefilhl — a  human  feeling  (perhaps  all  too 
human,  in  Nietzsche's  phrase).  For,  though  Goe- 
the would  not  be  called  an  atheist  even  with  re- 
gard to  these  above-mentioned  ''notions  of  God,*' 
he  is  quite  content  to  remain  agnostic.  What 
have  such  Gods  to  do  with  us?  And  if  so,  then 
what  have  we  to  do  with  them  I 

Now,  in  religious  affirmation,  Goethe  was  more 
joyously  at  home  by  temperament,  and  therefore 
more  convincingly  eloquent.  To  such  as  will  as- 
sume for  the  nonce  his  unconcern  with  extra-hu- 
man and  extra-mundane  deities,  these  chaunts 
breathe  the  very  life  of  piety  and  the  fervor  of 
idealism.    They  are  poetry,  not  metaphysical  defi- 


GOETHE  201 

niiion;  elation  of  spirit,  not  dogma.  But  to  ren- 
der them  more  easily  comprehended,  and  there- 
fore i^erhaps  more  heartily  acceptable  in  their 
noble  self-restraint  and  rational  enthusiasm,  it 
may  be  well  to  emphasize  the  arbitrary  sequence 
in  which  we  here  produce  them. 

Man's  consciousness  and  character  apjoearing  to 
him  and  for  him,  and  disappearing  in  due  time 
with  equal  mysteriousness;  the  mystery  also  for 
him  in  the  particular  course  allowed  them  by  the 
world  in  which  they  find  themselves;  these  are 
sung 

O  life  of  Man 's  soul 
How  like  unto  water! 
O  weird  of  Man 's  life 
How  like  unto  wind. 

Then  we  are  asked  to  meditate  on  the  limitations 
of  man's  power  of  body  and  mind.  Only  through 
successive  generations  does  man  ever  appear  to 
escape  them.  But  the  generations  are  '*a  chain 
link  in  link"  and  cannot  flee  from  their  own  law 
of  being  and  order.  They  repeat  rather  the  limi- 
tations of  the  ''petty  round"  than  pass  forth  in 
free  spiral  or  parabola. 

But  what  are  in  fact  these  Gods  men  have 
ever  yearned  to  know  and  dwell  with  in  heaven? 
They  are  ideals  man  must  realize  on  earth.  Their 
only  source  is  man's  groping  endeavor.  They 
are  projections  outward  of  inner  aspirations.  If 
they  ever  are  to  be  actual  reality,  we  shall  have  to 
bring  them  into  being  by  act ;  and  then  we  may  by 
metathesis  turn  our  final  end  into  a  cnu=-o.  and 


202  GOETHE 

call  ourselves  the  children  of  God!*  Strictly 
spoken — the  Gods  shall  yet  be  children  of  man. 
Albeit,  to  those  unknown,  unreckonable  potencies 
of  the  Universe  let  us  pay  the  worship  due — for 
that,  indeed,  is  their  only  human  use: — to  aid 
man  to  adore  and  yearn.  They  are  helps  to  the 
exercise  of  man's  highest  and  noblest  powers,  or 
they  are  nothing  to  him. 

Yet  there  be  Gods — in  the  sense  of  functions, 
faculties  and  attributes  within — whom  it  behooves 
us  to  cultivate,  at  all  events  to  grant  full  freedom 
of  play  unto  greater  achievements.  And  of  these 
mental  and  sentimental  powers  Goethe  cherishes 
most  Phantasy  and  Hope — for  they  set  man  in 
human  pre-eminence  above  the  animal. 

To  them,  "the  moment's  cramped  mindless  ex- 
istence." To  man — ^prospect  and  retrospect;  free 
of  "mere  want  and  need,"  to  make-believe  and  to 
enjoy;  to  find  mastery  and  courage  and  refresh- 
ment in  the  spirit.  And  beware  lest  Wisdom  wax 
overbearing,  and  cramp  Phantasy  with  petty  rules 
of  prudence ;  or  lest  in  our  devotion  to  Phantasy 
we  disparage  the  vital  Hope  through  which  Phan- 
tasy leads  on  to  her  own  vindication  in  "high 
enterprise,"  and  obtains  consolation,  however 
often  it  may  fail  of  deserv^ed  fruition  in  a  world 
that  ignores  us,  furthering  or  thwarting  blindly 
our  intent. 

After  so  much  more  or  less  superfluous  com- 

'The  "Word"  is  die  That;  for  the  deed  alone  includes  idea,  energy 
and  will,  and  through  it  only  is  mind  truly  made  manifest 


GOETHE  203 

ment,  let  the  noble  poems  themselves  address  the 
reader  in  the  best  version  we  were  able  to  make 
for  him,  hoping  that  he,  too,  will  accept  their  chal- 
lenge and  do  better  if  he  can ! 

GESANG  DEE   GEISTER   UEBER   DEN   WASSERN 

Chant  of  the  Spirits  Over  the  Waters 

The  Soul  of  Man 
Is  like  unto  Water: 
From   heaven   it   falleth, 
To  heaven  ariseth, 
And  thence  to  earthward 
In  endless  round 
Again  returneth! 

When  from  sheer  crag  quick-gusheth 
The  flashing  stream, 
It  breaketh  in  shimmer 
And  glister,  and  flitteth 
To  the  smooth  sheen  rocks 
Below;  whence  softly 
Updrawn,  as  a  mist-veil 
Forthfluttereth.its  mysteries 
Flit  lisping  and  whispering 
Adown  the  still  deepl 

If  rough  boulders  upfling  them 
Its  onrush  to  stem, 
Lo,  it  frotheth  and  roareth 
From  ledge  to  ledge  weltering 
To  the  bottomless  pit; 
Thro'  level  green  valleys 
It  dallyeth  wistfully — 
And  the  stars  do  number 
In  wide  pools  unwrinkled 
Their  twinkling  array. 

The  wind  is  the  lusty 
Lover  of  waters, 
Who  the  foamcrested  billows 
Upstirreth  and  mingleth. 

O,  Life  of  Man's  soul,  '^ 

How  like  unto  water! 
O,  Weird  of  man's  life, 
How  like  unto  wind! 


204  GOETHE 

DIE  GEENZEN  DER  MENSCHHEIT 

Human  Limitations 

When  far  scattereth  the  Ancient 

Of  days  and  most  holy 

Allfather,  freehanded 

From  billowing  cloudrack, 

The  seeds  over  earth 

Of  beneficent  lightning — 

I  kiss  me  his  vesture's 

Uttermost  border, 

The  little  child's  reverent 

Fear  in  my  heart. 

For  let  not  the  mightiest 
Meet  him  as  fellow 
With  beings  divine. 
Aloft  doth  man  hurl  him 
With  proud  front  to  smite 
The  heavens — and  lo,  helpless 
His  foot  findeth  nowhere 
Safe  stead,  while  the  welkin 
And  wind  with  him  sport. 

Or,  with  stout  thew  astrain 
If  he  rear  him  up,  stalwart, 
On  the  fast-founded  earth 
Everlasting, — behold, 
Tho'  haughty  of  stature, 
Shall  to  skyward  his  reach  be 
With  the  gnarled  oak's  likened. 
Or  the  clambering  vine's? 

What  sundereth  mankind 

From  the  Gods  thus  forever! 

Innumerous  the  waves  fare 

On  and  on  following — 

A  flow  inexhaustible 

Before  them;  while  us — 

One  surge  lifteth  and  swalloweth, 

That  we  sink  into  nought. 

A  petty  round  close 
Engirdeth  our  life; 
And  the  frequent  generations 
Outstretch  link  in  link 
The  chain   never  ending 
Of  human  existence. 


GOETHE  205 

DAS  GOTTLICHE 
The  Divine 


Iligh-hcartod  be  Man, 
Kindly  and  good. 
Seeing  thereby  only 
Preferred  is  he 
Before  all  beings 
To   mortals   known. 

Hail  the  loftier  Unknown 
Beings  whom  in  awe 
We  forefeel!     Let  man  be 
After  their  likeness; 
In  them  his  ensample 
Teach  trust  and  beliefl 

For,  without  feeling 
Is  Nature;  on  wicked 
And  good  forthshineth 
The  sun;  ay,  the  mean 
Alike  and   the  worthiest 
Behold  the  still  beauty 
Of  moon  and  of  stars. 

Whirlwind  and  flood. 
Thunder  and  hail-storm, 
Eoar  on  their  way, 
And,  hurtling  past  them, 
Whelm  in  destruction 
All  in  their  turn. 

Even  so,  blindly  gropeth 
Luck   'mid  the  many; 
Now  catching  the  curls 
Of  the  guileless  youngling, 
And  now  the  bald  pate 
Of  the  hoary  in  guilt. 

Girded  of  laws 
Everduring,  adamantine, 
Vast,_all,    all 
Must  draw  to  its  close 
Their  round  of  existence. 

Man  only  can  bring 
To    pass   the    impossible; — 
'Tis  he  who  discorneth. 
Who  doemoth  and  doometh; 
And   the  vanishing  moment 
By  his  grace  may  endure. 


206  GOETHE 

To  man  only  is  granted 
Boon  for  the  worthy, 
Bane  for  the  wicked; 
He  healeth,  he  saveth; 
The  astray  and  wide-strown 
He  atoneth  in  use. 

And  immortals  we  worship 
As  tho'  human  they  were; 
Wrought  in  the  vast, 
What  in  narrower  room 
The  worthiest  doeth, 
Or  fain  would  do. 

Be  the  high-hearted  man,  then, 
Both  kindly  and  good! 
Fashioning,  unwearied, 
The  Useful,  the  Right; 
In  truth  so  foreshadowing 
You  beings  we  divine. 


MEINE  G6TTIN 

My  Goddess 

To  which  of  the  deathless 
Shall  the  highest  praise  be? 
I  contend  not  with  any. 
Yet  proffer  my  worship 
To  the  quick-varying 
Ever-young  and  light-hearted 
Wondrous  daughter 
Of  Zeus,  his  darling 
Child — Phantasy! 

For  unto  her  freely 
Made  he  allotment 
Of  all  moods  and  whimsies, 
Else  sacredly  warded 
For  his  Godhead  alone; 
And  greatly  he  taketh 
Delight  in  the   anticks 
Of  his  wayward  wanton: — 

Whether  her  listeth 

With  crown  of  red  rose-buds 

And  white  lily-sceptre 

To  trip  it  thro'  valleys 

Abloom,  and  queen  it 

O'er  summery  song-birds 


GOETHE  207 


And  butterflies,  sipping 
The  sweet  dew,  bee-like, 
From  the  heart  of  the  flowers; 

Or  whether   her   listeth, 
With  loose  locks  streaming 
And  look  melancholy, 
In  the  winds  to  fling  her 
Over    beetling   crags; 
Or  with  hues   myriad-glinting 
As  the  morn  and  the  even, — 
With  ever  new  aspect 
As  the  smiles  of  the  morn, 
To  reveal  her  to  mortals. 

Wherefore  laud  and  thank 
Let  us  proffer  the  Ancient 
Of  Days,  high-exalted. 
The  Father,  who  so  lovely 
Never-fading  a  consort 
Hath  accorded  us,  perishing 
Children  of  men! 

For  unto  us  only 

Hath    he   lovingly   plighted   hor 

With  the  troth-ring  of  heaven, — 

And  straitly  charged  her 

In  good  days  and  evil 

As   true-hearted   helpmeet 

Never  to  forsake  us. 

All  other  poor  kindreds — 
Offspring   of  Earth 
Living   Mother  of  lives, — 
Roam,  raven  and  feed, 
In  the  gross  joys  sordid, 
And  the   dull  brutish  anguish 
Of  the  moment's  cramped 
Mindless  existence; — 
Low  bowed  by  the  yoke 
Of  want  and  of  need! 

Howbeit  unto  us    (O 
Joy!)^  he  hath  granted 
His  subtlest,  much-fondled 
And  daintiest  daughter. 
Come,  graciously  meet  her 
As  best  beloved; 
Tntreat  her  to  wield 
The  sway  of  our  household. 


208  GOETHE 

And  beware  lest  step-dame 
Wisdom    unwittingly 
KufHe  her  sensitive, 
Tender  child's  spirit. 

Albeit,  fellowship 
Lief,  with  her  elder, 
Soberer  sister 
Long  have  I  cherished; 

O  may  she  not  leave  me 
Ere  the  last  ray  of  life; 
She,  to  high  emprise  urger, 
Soul-consoler — kind  Hope! 


IV. 

And  now,  after  these  odes  which  any  reader  of 
poetry  must  enjoy,  whatever  his  convictions,  we 
would  present  for  his  consideration  three  pieces 
of  a  wholly  different  order.  In  sixteen  stanzas 
compact,  precise,  suggestive — that  puzzle,  pro- 
voke, yet  allure  to  repeated  trials  of  strength  with 
their  Delphic  obscurity — Goethe  expresses  his 
maturest  views  of  man,  the  world  and  God. 

They  were  none  of  them  translated  by  Sir  Ed- 
gar Alfred  Bowring,  C.  B.,  doubtless  ''because" 
in  his  opinion  ''the  few  other  pieces  included  by 
Goethe  under  the  title  of  Religion  and  the  World 
are  polemical  and  devoid  of  interest  to  the  Eng- 
lish reader!"  If  Bowring  has  judged  rightly,  the 
American  reader  we  fancy  is  not  wholly  like  his 
cousin!  It  was  doubtless,  however,  after  sore 
wrestlings  with  these  pieces  that  Sir  Edgar  at 
break  of  day  discovered  they  were  only  of  contro- 
versial and  local  interest!  For  difficult  as  they 
are  in  the  original,  they  become  even  more  so  in 


GOETHE  209 

any  version  that  endeavors  to  preserve  poetic 
dignity.  Too  easily  would  the  translator  give  us 
arid  abstracts  without  tlie  hypnotic  spell-power 
and  the  oracular  manifoldness  of  meaning  that 
doth  '4ease  us  out  of  thought"  and  constitutes 
ori)hic  poetry.  We  should  have  rhymed  meta- 
physics devoid  of  interest  for  any  except  some 
mind  in  complete  metaphysical  agreement  with 
the  author.  Our  task  was  undertaken  with  fear 
and  trembling  and  executed  ^'ith  perspiring  dili- 
gence and  frenetic  rapture.  Had  there  not  been 
for  us  a  personal  motive,  it  is  to  be  feared  the 
reader  would  not  now  have  his  opportunity  to  ex- 
ult over  our  failure.  But  there  was  one  eager 
student  of  Goethe  that  knows  no  German,  and 
for  whom  the  work  had  to  be  done  as  well  or  ill 
as  the  Muses  and  Minerva  would  permit. 

So  without  effort  at  self-vindication,  we  shall 
proceed  to  give  these  sixteen  stanzas,  eleven  pre- 
faced each  in  turn  by  prose  comment  which,  if  he 
resent  as  an  impertinence,  the  offended  reader 
will  kindly  cross  out  with  editorial  blue  pencil,  and 
read  and  re-read  the  translations  all  the  oftenor — 
with  the  originals  if  he  can,  and  is  so  minded — 
that  he  may  be  tempted  to  supersede  these  ef- 
forts, doubtless  more  laudable  for  their  good  in- 
tent than  for  the  eventual  excellence. 

Yet,  let  the  reader  once  more  impress  on  him- 
self, be  he  Christian  Dogmatist,  or  Atheistic  Dog- 
matist, that  wo  have  neither  of  these  twain  sorts 
of  cocksure  folk  in  our  poet.  He  is  agnostic,  but 


210  GOETHE 

reverently  disposed  towards  any  transcendental 
God;  profoundly  trustful  and  devout  in  attitude 
towards  an  immanent  God ;  and  indulgent  toward 
all  idols — *' God-notions"  presumed  ultimate,  ex- 
ternally alive,  effective  and  dominant;  for  they 
are  but  man's  intellectual  moral,  emotional  and 
physical  ''bests"  or  ideals,  projected  illusively 
for  more  ardent  and  loyal  service  and  adoration. 
Let  us  peruse,  then,  the  Proemion  as  Englished 
by  John  Addington  Symonds. 

PEOEMION  TO  GOD  AND  THE  WOELD. 

To  Him  who  from  eternity,  self-stirred, 
Himself  hath  made  by  his  creative  word; 
To  Him,  who  seek  to  name  him  as  we  will. 
Unknown  within  himself  abideth  still: 
To  Him  supreme  who  maketh  faith  to  be. 
Trust,  hope,  love,  power,  and  endless  energy. 

Strain  ear  and  eye  till  sight  and  sound  be  dim, 

Thou'lt  find  but  faint  similitudes  of  Him; 

Yea,  and  thy  spirit  in  her  flight  of  flame 

Still  tries  to  gauge  the  symbol  and  the  name:  — 

Charmed  and  compelled  thou  climbs't  from  height  to  height 

And  round  thy  path  the  world  shines  wondrous  bright; 

Time,  space  and  size  and  distance  cease  to  be. 

And  every  step  Is  fresh  Infinity. 

What  were  the  God  who  sat  outside  to  see 

The  spheres  beneath  His  finger  circling  free? 

God  dwells  within,  and  moves  the  world  and  moulds; 

Himself  and  nature  In  one  form  enfolds: 

Thus  all  that  lives  In  Him  and  breathes  and  Is, 

Shall  ne'er  His  presence,  ne'er  His  Spirit  mIsB. 

The  soul  of  man,  too,  is  an  universe; 

Whence  follows  It  that  race  with  race  concurs 

In  naming  all  It  knows  of  good  and  true, 

God — yea,  its  own  God — and  with  honor  due 

Surrenders  to  His  sway  both  earth  and  heaven. 

Fears  Him,  and  loves,  where  place  for  love  Is  given. 


GOETHE  211 

Eins  und  Alles,  **A11  and  the  One"  and  Ver- 
macMniss,  "My  Legacy,"  are  in  the  same  stanza- 
form,  and  are  knit  together  by  common  lines,  the 
first  stanza  of  the  latter  taking  up  the  conclusion 
reached  in  the  last  sextet  of  the  former. 

Urivorte,  ** Oracular  Words"  (to  which  the  poet 
wrote  some  helpful  prose  comments),  relates  in 
more  generic,  and  by  the  use  of  myth  and  obso- 
lete theory,  more  imaginative  form,  the  same 
great  doctrine  of  life,  spiritual  but  not  transcen- 
dental ;  deliberately  self-limited  to  the  hither  bank 
of  the  Styx.  Being  yet  unghosted,  if  he  should 
take  a  trip  with  Charon  at  all,  Goethe  insists  on 
returning  to  the  familiar  side  of  body  and  form, 
of  sense  and  reason. 

**A11  and  the  One,"  ''My  Legacy"  and  ''Orac- 
ular Words"  form  in  the  mind's  eye  a  little  book 
of  parchment  in  black  letter  with  golden  capitals 
and  cherry-red  rubrics — for  the  pocket  of  the  de- 
vout Naturalist.  And,  any  such  book  of  devotion 
(of  hard  sayings,  hard  because,to  the  sayer,  final) 
must  be  prized  by  every  man,  whatever  his  own 
philosophic  label  or  ecclesiastical  niche. 

ALL  AND  THE  ONE 

On  the  one  hand,  the  individual  as  a  self-con- 
scious repellent  entity;  and  on  the  other  hand, 
the  many  others  which  for  the  fonuer  in  their  rel- 
ative vagueness  of  particularization  (as  contrast- 
ed with  his  own  vivid,  emphatic,  unique  certainty 


212  GOETHE 

to  himself)  vaguely  integrate  in  a  manifold  gen- 
eral; and  these  twain  in  eternal  antithesis  and 
conflict:  Who  of  ardent  sensitive  souls  does  not 
at  times  weary  of  them,  and  long  for  total  fusion, 
unity,  the  absolute  of  conscious  bliss  realized  in 
the  lapse  from  separate  consciousness?  No  func- 
tion is  well  performed  while  we  are  aware  of  the 
process.  Acute  consciousness  is  for  fresh  experi- 
ments. For  the  well-tried  and  mastered — uncon- 
scious performance  or  rather  performance  con- 
scious of  body  ease  and  soul  ease,  perfect  function 
and  complete  life.  So  this  mystic  self- surrender 
seems  a  finding  of  the  true  Self. 

SELF-SUEEENDER. 

Ay,  self  to  find  in  the  boundless  Vast 
Gladly  the  One  were  lost  at  last, 

All  chafe  and  coil  dissolved  away; 
No  heat  of  lust,  wild  will  grim  set, 
Irksome  demand,  stern  duty's  threat; 

Self — yielded  up — what  ecstasy? 

But  if  it  be  no  illusion  that  in  this  experience 
some  Soul  of  the  Whole  takes  possession  of  the 
part,  the  self-surrender  is  not  for  its  own  sake 
surely,  but  for  a  taking  possession  in  our  turn 
of  the  thought  which  that  Soul  of  the  Whole 
tliinks  in  its  very  self.  Interpenetration,  if  real, 
is  mutual.  And  indeed,  so  have  the  sages  taught. 
Each  brings  back  to  the  plane  some  token  of  his 
divine  intercourse  on  the  mount,  which  in  turn 
shall  lead  his  disciples  to  climb  for  themselves  the 
steep  ascent. 


GOETHE  213 

ATONEMENT. 

Soul  of  the  world,  come  thrill  us  through! 
To  wrest  from  the  world-mind  the  True 

Were  chiefest  use,  then,  of  our  strength. 
Kind   spirits   beckon   and   profTer   aid; 
To  Ilim  who  maketh  all,  and  made, — 

The  foremost  masters  lead  at  length. 

And  what  do  we  see  from  the  divine  height? 
A  perpetual  process  of  creation!  Tlie  formless, 
formed;  and  form  reformed.  A  perpetual  on- 
ward, that  whatever  it  aims  at — if  it  aim  at  all 
with  manlike  intelligence  and  volition — at  all 
events  refuses  to  be  arrested  at  any  stage,  how- 
ever noble,  of  the  eternal  process. 

CKEATION. 

To  shape  again  the  fashioned  shape — 
Lest,  stiff,  it  rear  and  ramp  agape, — 

Is  wrought  by  th '  onward  Thrust  of  life. 
What  was  not,  now  would  come  to  birth 
In  clear  bright  sun,  or  motley  earth, — 

But  never  to  rest  from  change  and  strife. 

And  whence  this  ''onward  Thrust  of  life?'* 
Apparently,  not  from  without.  An  inherent  ne- 
cessity! Yet  the  type  is  recurrent  through  the 
ever-changing  forms.  And  that  type  would  break 
asunder,  and  the  All  become  nothing,  if  anywhere 
at  any  time  any  part  should  persist  in  self-iden- 
tity. For  the  type  is  a  moving  type — a  mode 
itself  of  motion,  which  can  only  continue  true  to 


itself  in  change. 


EVOLUTION. 


Live  shall  they,  and  press  with  fashioning  strain. 
The  self -framed  shape  transformed  amain; 

But  seldom  seem  they  stayed  and  still. 
The   Abiding   gocth  forth  in   all; 
For  the  All  to  utter  Nought  must  fall 

If  held  to  being  with  stark  self-will. 


214  GOETHE 

MY  LEGACY 

Vermdchtniss,  * '  My  Legacy ' ' ;  my  will  and  testa- 
ment ;  whereby  I  empower  you  to  become  child  of 
my  spirit;  bearing  therein  my  witness  to  life, 
and  transmitting  to  you  my  holiest  wisdom;  the 
net  result  of  that  hazardous  ethical  experiment 
in  living  I  conducted,  with  as  complete  a  freedom 
as  sane  mind  and  sound  heart  allow  a  civilized 
and  cultured  man.  Wherefore  accept  my  legacy, 
and  use  it,  for  what  may  be  to  you  its  vital  worth. 

If  all  is  thus  in  flux — why  fear?  That  which 
thou  lovest  about  thee  if  it  be  as  real  as  thou 
must  float  with  thee  down  the  self-same  stream. 
Set  thy  heart  on  things  that  verily  be,  and  know 
that  the  ''Eternal"  is  in  the  transient;  vanished 
spring  returns  and  the  set  star  rises  again.  Thou 
hast  no  true  cause  for  alarm. 

EXISTENCE 

What  is — to  Nought  can  nowise  fall. 
The  Abiding  goeth  forth  in  all. 

Thy  bliss  in  being  then  have  and  hold; 
For  Being  abideth  ever;  and  laws 
Thy  living  hoard  shall  keep,  because 

The  All  decked  him  therewith  of  old. 

And  truth,  be  sure,  is  never  new — though  new 
to  thee.  What  thou  findest  to  be  true,  call  it  by 
whatsoever  name  thou  please,  is  what  from  the 
beginning  made  human  life  possible ;  and  has  for 
primal  source — that  which  ordered  suns  and 
planetary  orbits — and  holds  them  what  they  are. 


GOETHE  215 

EEASON 

Time  out  of  mind,  the  truth  was  found, — 
And  the  high  fellowship  of  souls  close-bound. 

Hold  fast  the  eldest  Truth,   and   thank, 
O  child  of  earth,  for  wisdom — One 
Who  bade  earth  wing  her  'round  the  sun, 

Hosting  her  brethren  rank  on  rank. 

As  thou  hast  no  right  to  conceit  of  the  intellect, 
neither  hast  thou  right  to  irresponsible  wilfulness 
in  conduct.  In  every  being  works  its  organic  law. 
In  thee,  too,  it  may  be  discerned  by  thee ;  and  so 
from  the  oracle  within  shalt  thou  get  thee  guid- 
ance for  the  hour  of  bewilderment  and  gloom. 

CONSCIENCE 

Now  straightway  to   within   thee   turn; 
That  midmost  spot  wilt  thou  discern 

No  man  of  worth  can  dare  gainsay. 
Hast  lack  there  of  no  rule  or  'hest: 
For  love — self-gotten — of  the  best 

Is  sun  unto  thy  duty's  day. 

Das  Selhstdndige  Gewissen — the  self-dependent 
consciousness  of  one's  true  nature  and  interest — 
will  guide  thy  life  so  far  as  the  organic  and  indi- 
vidual being  constitute  it;  but  there  is  a  partner 
to  thy  life: — the  outer  world  thou  must  come  to 
know,  and  estimate  through  sense  and  critical  in- 
telligence. Observe  closely,  scrutinize,  classify — 
and  use. 

So  guided  by  conscience  and  science,  the  world 
is  thy  patrimony — and  no  ghoul  or  demon  shall 
say  thee  nay. 

UNDERSTANDING 

In  th'  body's  wits  put  childlike  faith; 
They  cheat  not  ever  with  lie  or  wraith 
Whom  the  quick  mind  shall  ward  from  sleep 


216  GOETHE 

With   keen   glad   eye   go   mark   and   learn; 
Fare  safe,  howso  thy  path  may  turn, 

Through  a  world  of  wealth  far-strown  and  deep. 

Yet  beware !  The  world  is  thine.  But  let  it  not 
wrest  thee  from  thy  true  interest.  Thy  life  of  ret- 
rospect must  not  be  marred.  Store  thy  mind  with 
assimilable  memories  only.  Surfeits  and  excesses 
— however  at  the  time  they  may  be  insolently  joy- 
ful— are  loathsome  afterward,  and  need  to  be  for- 
gotten. Thou  wilt  have  to  lose  some  of  thy  mem- 
ories to  endure  the  present;  and  the  obstinate 
ghosts  of  retrosi^ect  will  flee  to  rearward,  only  to 
meet  thee  in  prospect  and  bar  the  way  with  night- 
mare hideousness.  Wherefore,  so  live  the  actual 
life  that  thy  mental  life  shall  be  a  continuous 
sweetly,  sanely  memorable  whole; — that,  like  a 
symphony,  its  end  shall  be  an  encore  of  pious 
gratitude. 

PRUDENCE 

In  plenty  and  weal,  taste — and  forbear, 
Be  Heed   still  bidden,   and  well  aware 

When  life  of  life  hath  cheer  and  glee; 
So  shall  the  bygone  day  abide, 
And  time  forefeel  the  unborn  tide, 

And  the  brief  Now — forever  be! 

Yet  such  living  is  an  art  acquired  only  by  prac- 
tice. Some  accidental  discords  will  need  resolv- 
ing. And  through  these  experiments,  thou  wilt 
discover  the  only  standard  of  truth  and  value : — 
good  and  blessed  consequences.  So,  thou  wilt 
learn  how  dispassionately  to  observe  mankind, 
that  lives  no  such  life  as  thou  fain  wouldest: — 
their    conventional    choices — their    perpetual    da 


GOETHE  217 

capos  of  folly  and  futility — and  slialt  be  well  con- 
tent with  the  intimate  company  of  those  few,  who, 
like  thee,  would  make  their  lives,  so  much  as  in 
them  lieth,  things  of  beautiful  use : — 

WISDOM 

And  hast  thou  got  thee  skill  herein, 
Throughly  to  feel,  and  surely  ween: 

"What  fruiteth  well  alone  is  true" — 
Behold  thou  long  the  common  sway — 
What   dooms  it  deemeth   on   for  aye — 

And  fellow  thee  unto  the  few. 

Yet  if  thou  wouldest  help  them  forward,  do  so 
not  by  attempted  violence.  Like  philosophers  and 
poets,  take  the  privilege  of  directing  the  currents 
of  their  psychic  experience  into  good  channels. 
Surely,  no  more  satisfying  function,  no  more  de- 
lightful expense  of  vital  energy  is  possible ! 

VOCATION 

And,  as  of  j^ore  alone  and  still 
Some  work  love-born  of  their  own  will 

The  men  of  lore  and  song-craft    'gat, — 
Thou  winnest   gift  most  fair:   to  fashion 
High  souls  with  thine  own  thought  and  passion! 

What  call  or  task  shall  better  that? 

For  lo !  thou  hast  exercised  the  prophetic  office 
— anticipated  their  thought  and  feeling — because 
thou  hast  thereto  incited  them  with  thine ;  uncon- 
sciously, they  have  accepted  thy  patterns,  seen  by 
thee  in  **thy  mount";  and  as  thou  aspiredst  and 
didst  create — so  shall  they  come  to  he  in  deed,  and 
therefore,  also,  in  truth. 


2lS  GOETHE 


¥, 


URWOETE,  ORPHISCH 

Oracular  Words  in  Orphic  Manner 

And  now  having  made  the  above  ' '  will  and  tes- 
tament" to  the  children  of  his  spirit,  Goethe  shall 
say  farewell  to  ns  so  far  as  this  paper  is  concerned 
in  his  "Oracular  "Words  in  Orphic  Manner:"  In- 
dividuality, Environment,  Passion,  Necessity,  and 
Aspiration;  for  which  the  reader  needs  now  no 
comment.  Of  course.  Astrology,  the  myth  of  Pri- 
mal Eros,  and  the  myth  of  the  three  Sisters  and 
their  Weird  (taken  in  its  Hellenic  form)  help  to 
give  impassioned  expression  to  the  philosophy 
of  our  non-transcendental  Idealist,  our  glad- 
hearted,  keen-witted  Naturalist — the  poet  of 
*' Faust,"  parts  first  and  second,  of  **Egmont" 
and  of  "Iphigenia  in  Tauris,"  in  which  the  life- 
passion,  heroism,  and  sincerity  of  the  modem 
soul,  have  their  loftiest  poetic  expression  hitherto 
vouchsafed  the  creative  spirit  of  man. 

DaMON 
The  Oenius,  Individuality,  Innate  Character 

Yea,  as  the  Bun  (what  day  thy  life  was  leant 

The  world)  did  stand  each  planet's  sphere  to  greet — 

So  throv'st  thou  erst,  obedient  to  thy  bent, 
By  that  same  law  which  hither  sped  thy  feet. 

Such  must  thou  be.    None  yet  his  Self  outwent, 
This  rede   sybil  and  seer  of  old  repeat; 

For  never  time   nor  might   could  break    asunder 

The  shape  seed-hidden,  whose  life  unfolds  its  wonder. 


GOETHE  219 

DAS  ZUFaLLIGE 
Luck,   Environment 

Yet  Somewhat  doth  with  gracious  tread  outgo 
The  straitest  bound,  and  with  and  round  us  move. 

Not  lonely  long;   with  fellows  dost  thou  grow, 
As  oth'r  well  do,  doth  thee  to  do  behoove. 

Now  for  and  now  against  thee  falls  the  throw! 
Thy  life  a  game  whose  chances  thou  must  prove. 

The  years,  unnoted,  have  their  ring  united, 

And  now,  the  lamp  doth  lack  the  flame  to  light  it. 

LIEBE 

Passion,  Love. 

Not  long  it  tarrieth.     From  heaven  He  flings 
Whereto  He  soared  out  of  the  primal  Void. 

Lo,  hither  he  hovereth  on  airy  wings 

In  Springtide  about  brow  and  breast  light-buoyed, 

Feigning  to  flee,  with  subtle  home-flutterings. 
Then  weal  is  woe — panic  with  sweetness  cloyed. 

Some  hearts  waste  in   the   many  their  emotion; 

The  noblest  to  one  only  vow'th  devotion. 

NOTHIGUNG 
Necessity,  Fate 

Then  once  more  'tis — even  as  the  stars  deem  just: 
Condition  and  law  and  the  will  of  all — be  will 

For  that  alone  in  sooth  we  ought  and  must! 
Each  wilful  wish  before  that  "Will  hushed  still. 

What  most  we  prize  from  the  heart's  core  we  thrust. 
Mood,  will  and  whim  the  hard  "thou  shalt"  fulfill. 

So  fare  we  yet,  in  seeming  freedom,  yearly 

More  close  beset  than  erst  and  hemmed  more  nearly. 

HOFFNUNG 
Hope,  Aspiration 

But  from  such  metes  and  bounds,  such  walls  of  brass 
The  stubborn  gates  unbolt  them  and  unbar, 

Tho '  ancient  as  the  hills  their  rocklike  mass. 
A  Spirit  light-flitteth,  untrammelled;  lo,  we  are 

From  cloudrack,  reek  and  rain  upcaught,  and  pass 
Breathless  with  her,  given  wings  of  her,  afar. 

Ye  know  her  well.     No  realm  her  revel  may  banish. 

One  wing  beat — and  the  worlds  behind  us  vanish! 


220  GOETHE 

After  considering  this  lofty  poem, — which  in 
the  view  of  the  present  writer  almost  bears  to 
Goethe's  work  the  relation  borne  by  Das  Ideal 
Und  Das  Lthen  to  Schiller's, — one  is  hardly  am- 
bitious to  invite  a  sudden  anti-climax.  Yet,  per- 
haps, it  is  not  altogether  well  if  we  let  some  read- 
ers ascend  vertiginously  into  the  upper  air, 
without  providing  them  betimes  with  a  licensed 
parachute.  Goethe  at  least  mingled  sober,  imagi- 
native, earnest,  and  gracious  or  pungent  jest  in 
the  treatment  of  the  very  loftiest  themes.  For  in- 
stance the  materialistically  inclined  physicist  is 
forcibly  told : 

"Is  not  Nature's  Inmost  core 
In    the  heart  of  men?" 

Again,  Parmenides  is  made  to  tell  his  question- 
ers that  if,  when  they  mystically  withdraw  into 
their  inmost  self,  they  fail  to  find  themselves  con- 
fronted on  the  spot  with  the  infinity  of  sjDirit 
(or  wit)  and  wisdom,  it  is  surely  nowise  the  fault 
of  the  philosopher's  doctrine!  Such  a  great  va- 
riety of  poems  offer  themselves  indeed  to  the  ex- 
positor of  Goethe,  who  would  let  himself  down 
from  the  heights  of  breathless  awe,  that  in  our 
embarras  de  richesse  we  will  settle  upon  two 
pieces  which  have  a  special  message  for  such  read- 
ers as  desire  the  creation  of  an  American  Litera- 
ture. 

On  his  seventy-fifth  birthday  (August  the  28th, 
1824)  Goethe  addressed  the  future  poets  of  the 
world  concerning  what,  in  a  foregoing  essay  on 


GOETHE  221 

Translation,  we  ventured  to  lay  down  as  the  prin- 
cipal law  of  the  true  Translator.  First  the  poet 
shall  live  and  then  write;  first  ^'dichten"  (com- 
pose the  imaginative  whole)  and  then  '*malcn'* 
(paint,  represent  the  mental  color  with  visible 
pigment  of  word  and  phrase).  The  serious  st^ie, 
Matthew  Arnold's  style  of  high  seriousness,  the 
ultimate  secret  of  the  eternity  ascribed  to  imper- 
ishable forms, — is  got  of  writing  directly  out  of 
one's  very  head  and  heart.  He  reminds  them  how 
it  had  been  only  by  a  providential  gift  from  the 
gods,  that  is,  a  stormy  burst  of  growth,  German 
poetry  escaped  its  fate  in  a  hothouse  of  the  eru- 
dite and  artificial,  carrying  the  hothouse  gaily 
along  with  it  into  the  skies.  But  when  his  e^^elids 
will  close  forever,  a  soft,  yet  jDcrsuasive  refracted 
light,  emanating  from  his  works  and  those  of  his 
peers,  shall  reach,  he  hopes,  the  future  poets,  by 
which  Germany's  latest  scion  of  the  Muse  may 
be  taught  to  report  eventually  in  higher  proi^hetic 
judgments  yet  nobler  truths  concerning  God  and 
Man  than  were  given  to  him  for  speech  and  song. 
Similarly  he  admitted,  nay  welcomed,  the  need 
for  each  new  age  of  its  own  ending  to  his  Faust. 
We  have  here  indeed  a  worthy  pride  joined  to  a 
devout  modesty,  that  may  commend  Goethe  to  our 
aspirants  after  poetic  fame.  But  how  will  they 
enjoy  his  farther  admonishment? 

America  thy  Fate  Is  better 
Than  ours  on  this  old  continent; 
No  ruined  keeps  thy  fancy  fetter. 
No  basalt  of  eruptions  spent. 
So,  in  the  living  active  present 


222  GOETHE 

Inly  art  thou  not  perplexed 

By  memories,  vain,   however  pleasant, — 

Nor  by  bygone  conflicts  vexed. 

In  thy  use  of  the  present,  God  speed  thee; 

But  if  ever  child  of  thine  boasts 

Of  the  Muse,  kind  Fate,  I  reed  thee. 

Save  him  from  robbers,  knights,  ghosts! 

Alas,  alas,  Longfellow?  Poe?  Hawthorne? 
We  hang  our  heads  in  sorrow,  and  dire  misgiving 
causes  the  knees  of  our  spirit  to  totter.  But  shall 
such  a  hard  saying  be  taken  to  prophecy  and  ap- 
prove the  aesthetic  spread-eagle,  whilom  a-yawp 
in  post-bellum  Manhattan,  or  more  tunefullv  even 
now,  if  less  vitally,  upon  the  sun-ruddied  Coast- 
range  of  the  Pacific,  reminicently  dubbed  by  Cin- 
cinnatus,  alias  Joaquin  Miller,  the  Sierras? 

We  are  loth  to  quote  the  great  Goethe  in  au- 
thoritative furtherance  of  any  cause,  however 
near  our  heart,  unless  the  quotation  be  ascertain- 
ably  fair  and  true  to  its  context  of  intention.  We 
are  not  of  those  who  would  willingly  be  jibed  at 
of  the  great  Olympian : 

Da  loben  sie  den  Faust 

Und    was   noch   sunsten. 
In  meinen  Schriften  braust 

Zu  Ihren  Gunsten; 

which  rendered  impromptu, — or  rather  prompted 
by  the  imp  of  doggerel— might  be  Englished  as 
follows : 

So  my  Faust  they  loudly  laud, 
And  all  thoughts  else  and  emotions 

Which  through  my  writings  roar  abroad 
In  unison — with  their  notions! 

Indeed,  so  great  and  manifold  was  the  imagi- 
native power,  the  serious  depth,  the  lightness  of 


GOETHE  223 

heart,  the  flashes  of  wit,  the  sheer  mischief  and 
childish  play  of  Goethe,  that  one  could  quite  plaus- 
ibly quote  him  on  any  side  of  every  controversy, 
arrogate  for  him  good  standing  in  all  the  several 
sects  whatsoever,  or  curse  him  with  bell,  book, 
and  candle  in  mediaeval  fervor,  for  every  heresy, 
possible  and  impossible,  since  Adam.  Suffice  it 
this  once  then,  if  we  have  effectively  testified  to 
his  religious  and  philosophic  integrity,  moral  ele- 
vation and  piety,  having  also  shown  him,  in  con- 
clusion, most  kindly  disposed  towards  us  of  the 
new  dispensation,  which  began,  be  it  known  unto 
all  men,  with  the  notorious  Tea-Party  on  Boston 
Bay. 


UNTRANSCENDENTAL  OPTIMISM  AND 
THE  POETRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH. 


The  reading  public  as  a  whole  were  never  much 
addicted  to  early  rising.  They  are  deaf,  usually, 
to  the  persistent  crowing  of  literary  cocks.  For 
them  the  lifting  of  heavy  eyelids  constitutes  sun- 
rise. It  has  happened  sundry  times,  therefore, 
that  long  after  the  strutting  fowl  of  the  barnyard 
had  ceased  to  make  any  further  vocal  efforts  at 
arousing  the  somnolent,  a  poet's  genius  did  not 
appear  as  it  should  have  done,  dutifully  meek  at 
the  horizon,  but  has  most  disagreeably  flashed  all 
at  once  from  the  zenith,  as  if  expressly  created 
there  on  the  spot  out  of  nothing  by  some  piece 
of  critical  legerdemain!  Then,  to  have  the  star- 
tled public  assure  one  that  this  particular  orb 
of  genius  is  unbecomingly  sudden  in  its  celestial 
debut,  and  not  very  considerate  of  eyes  unused  to 
high  light,  is  apt  to  divert  not  a  little  the  mali- 
cious on-looker. 

The  public^ — so  far  as  Meredith  is  concerned — • 
are  at  last  aroused.  They  have  rubbed — nay, 
opened — their  eyes;  they  have  yawned  and 
stretched,  and  lo !  a  new  star  in  the  border  sky  of 
Great  Britain!  An  edition  of  select  poems  for 
readers  equally  select  is  the  commercial  conse- 

224 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  225 

quence.*  Perhaps,  however,  one  of  those  critics 
who  crowed  himself  hoarse  all  but  in  vain  a  little 
while  ago  may  claim  that  the  publication  in  ques- 
tion was  the  rude  punch  in  the  comfortal)le  ribs 
that  finally  awoke  the  snorer.  Be  that,  however, 
as  it  may.  Let  them  fight  it  out  together — half- 
awake  public  and  throatsore  critics.  It  may  serve 
to  put  the  contestants  in  full  possession  of  their 
wits,  and  obviate  any  fatal  relapse  into  the  arms 
of  Morpheus. 

It  is  surely  a  good  while,  at  all  events,  since 
the  student  of  Meredith's  unique  novels  became 
aware  that  his  master,  philosopher  though  he 
might  be  termed — psychologist  and  moralist  in 
any  case — is  essentially  a  child  of  the  Muse;  a 
perverse  one,  it  may  be,  lost  in  the  far  country 
of  abstruse  reasoning,  but  none  the  less  beloved 
of  her.  Who  ever  read  of  Richard  and  Lucy  and 
their  young  love,  and  failed  to  know  the  poet? 
Just  as  Browning  presumed  that  ''care  for  a  man 
and  his  work"  should  assist  the  reader  in  over- 
coming what  "defects  of  expression"  might  in- 
here in  his  poem,  and  refused  such  a  revison  of 
his  first  conception  as  should  make  it  a  different 
thing,  so  Meredith  was  no  producer  of  wares  for 
the  bookseller.  He,  too,  did  his  best,  and  was 
content  to  abide  the  issue  of  the  mute  controversy 
between  him  and  the  public  that  would  not  read 
him. 

No  advantage  will  be  gained  by  the  advocate  of 

•This   paper  was  written   on    the  occasion   of  the   appearance   of 
'Selected  Poems  of  George  Meredith,"  Scribner's,  '97. 


226  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Meredith's  cause  as  a  great  writer  if  lie  claims 
for  his  style  simplicity  in  the  sense  of  perspicu- 
ousness.  Far  more  helpful  will  it  be  to  offer  a 
few  suggestions  as  to  the  nature  and  cause  of  its 
obscurity  than  to  spend  breath  in  denial,  futile, 
however  sincere.  And  surely  it  were  well  worth 
while  to  prove  that,  if  'defects  of  expression" 
are  admittedly  his,  they  are  such  as  might  be  rea- 
sonably expected  in  a  poet  who  should  at  the 
same  time  be  an  acute  thinker,  in  one  who  is  im- 
pelled to  clothe  original  thought  with  a  body  of 
original  diction  prepared  expressly  for  it.  What 
is  to  be  conveyed  and  the  verbal  vehicle  are  equal- 
ly unfamiliar.  Now,  the  ordinary  reader  likes 
commonplace  thought  in  novel  language,  or  start- 
ling conceptions  in  conventional  words;  and  no 
one  surely  should  blame  such  as  cannot  swim  for 
refusing  to  venture  out  of  their  depth  without  a 
life-preserver. 

I.    Style. 

Some  of  Meredith's  poems  are  not  understood 
even  by  a  scrupulous  student  till  he  has  reached 
for  the  sixth  or  seventh  time  the  last  word.  It 
may  be  that  we  moderns  have  lost  and  not  re-dis- 
covered the  ''art  of  reading,"  or  it  may  be  that 
our  poet's  modes  of  utterance  are  peculiar.  A 
waggish  acquaintance  of  the  present  writer  de- 
manded of  his  bookseller  a  special  discount  when 
purchasing  "A  Reading  of  the  Earth"  on  the 
score  of  the  omitted  words  he  should  have  to  sup- 
ply for  himself.    Yet,  since  the  compositor  is  paid 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  227 

at  no  higher  rate  for  the  visible  type  than  for 
the  clear  space  after  each  line  of  verse,  on  the 
principle,  doubtless,  that  the  suggestively  vague 
is  fully  as  much  prized  by  the  poetic  connoisseur 
as  the  precisely  defined,  it  was  evidently  unrea- 
sonable to  imagine  that  economic  reasons  had  in- 
duced this  writer  to  practice  such  cruel  excision. 
Certain  it  is,  however,  that  stolen  articles  and 
particles,  missing  pronouns,  verbs,  and  nouns,  are 
often  solely  resj^onsible  for  our  initial  despair  I 
In  many  cases  a  freer  distribution  even  of  com- 
mas, parentheses  or  dashes,  a  charity  of  coppers 
in  a  good  stylist,  would  help  the  average  reader's 
poverty  of  wit  not  a  little,  and  at  all  events  pre- 
serve him  from  precipitate  suicide.  In  my  own 
case  (and  no  one  should  presume  to  speak  for 
another)  it  is  not  the  strictly  x^hilosophical  pas- 
sages that  have  occasioned  most  perplexity.  It 
was,  as  a  rule,  when  describing  common  phenom- 
ena of  nature  that  our  poet  forced  me  to  count 
my  readings  of  a  passage  by  the  score.  It  would 
seem  as  if  a  frantic  dread  of  the  commonplace 
had  made  our  author  flee  into  remote  fastnesses 
of  unintelligible  metaphor,  impregnably  fortified 
besides  by  hitherto  inconceivable  syntax. 

May  one  venture  on  a  figurative  account  of  what 
not  rarely  happens?  Mr.  George  Meredith  in  the 
sanctuary  of  Lis  poetical  consciousness,  remote 
from  the  vulgar  world,  lawfully  affiances  and  mar- 
ries a  feeling  or  an  idea  to  an  image.  They  are 
in  his  sight  thenceforth  one  flesh.    For  better,  for 


228  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

worse,  for  richer,  for  poorer,  till  death  them  do 
part,  they  are  inseparable,  nay — cannot  even  for  a 
moment  be  imagined  otherwise  than  together. 
Consequently,  he  feels  that  he  has  done  his  full 
duty  by  us  non-initiates  when  he  sets  but  one 
striking  word  in  a  verse  of  his  poem  that  has 
reference  to  some  particular  feature,  say,  of  the 
image,  the  bride.  If  you  are  shrewd  enough  to 
see  before  you,  as  you  undoubtedly  should,  the 
image  in  its  entirety,  the  bride  in  all  her  beauty, 
with  the  one  feature,  definitely  represented  by  a 
word  in  the  verse  especially  prominent,  it  is  yet 
by  no  means  certain  that  you  will  be  visited  at 
once  by  a  mental  vision  also  of  the  lawful  hus- 
band of  the  image — the  feeling  or  idea.  In  spite 
of  all  Platonic  fictions,  it  were  unsafe  to  infer  the 
nature  of  the  groom  from  your  acquaintance  with 
the  bride.  The  fate  which  presides  over  human 
matings  is  proverbially  ironical.  In  the  case  of 
the  marriages  between  word  images  and  feelings 
or  ideas,  at  which,  as  poetic  high  23riest,  Mr.  Mere- 
dith officiates,  the  secret  of  their  mutual  fitness, 
and  of  the  due  performance  of  the  binding  rites, 
also,  is  too  often  his  and  theirs  alone.  However, 
after  patiently  studying  the  master  and  his  un- 
doubtedly peculiar  ways,  one  becomes  so  used  to 
expecting  the  unexpected  as  to  be  seldom  disap- 
pointed. 

In  a  word,  then,  the  first  source  of  the  reader's 
perplexity   is   undoubtedly  found   in   our  poet's 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  229 

vivid  metapliors,  though  those  are  in  themselves, 
one  must  admit,  very  beautiful  or  very  strong. 

I  gazed,  unawaro 

How  a  shaft  of  the  blossoming  tree 

Was  shot  from  the  yew  wood 's  core. 

("The  Trial  of  Faith."    P.  360.*) 

The  wild  cherry  tree  was  startlingly  outlined  by 
the  somber  background  of  the  yew.  It  sug- 
gested the  bow.  The  rays  of  light  from  the  bloom 
were  the  arrows.  Yes,  this  is  a  wonderful  figure, 
in  itself  a  poem ;  for  the  yew  in  turn  becomes  the 
sjTnbol  of  the  poet's  battle  with  tempestuous  sor- 
row, the  gloom  of  bereavement  needed  to  set  off 
the  joy  of  spiritual  life  into  divine  relief.  Such 
an  involution  of  soul  into  a  bit  of  landscape  does 
more  than  amaze.  Nor  is  it  uncommon  in  the 
philosophic  poems  of  our  author,  though  not  al- 
ways as  fortunate  in  its  aesthetic  result  as  this 
oft-quoted  instance: 

strange. 
When  it  strikes  to  within,  is  the  known; 
Richer  than  newness  revealed.  (p.  359.) 

Indeed,  he  makes  familiar  aspects  of  nature 
*' strike  within  us,"  and  we  are  grateful  to  him. 

Another  and  less  legitimate  source  of  perplex- 
ity must,  however,  be  pointed  out.  Often  the  less 
obvious,  the  more  delightful  a  metaphor  in  the 
end.  But  most  of  us  have  come  to  think  it  a  mat- 
ter of  good  breeding  in  metaphors  to  present 
themselves   singly.     In    Meredith's   poems   they 

♦References  are  by  page  to  "Poems,"  Scrlbner's,  '98. 


230  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

come  hand  in  hand,  and  close  on  one  another's 
heels. 

The  fact  is,  analysis  has  gone  so  far  with  Mere- 
dith that  the  sentence  is  no  longer  the  poetic  unit. 
If,  therefore,  one  figure  should,  in  his  expression 
of  a  simiDle  thought,  best  fit  the  subject,  while 
quite  another  is  most  suited  to  the  predicate,  he 
will  not  scruple  to  do  separate  justice  to  subject 
and  predicate  by  arraying  each  in  its  most  becom- 
ing garb,  even  if  the  sentence  as  a  whole  shall 
go  motley. 

Naught  else  are  we  wheii  sailing  brave 

Save  husks  to  raise  and  bid  it  burn.  (p.  330.) 

In  previous  lines  he  had  called  the  ''rapture  of 
the  forward  view"  the  "freight"  of  his  senses, 
which  are  a  "shii^"  "driving  shoreward"  and 
doomed  to  split.  The  "thought"  survives  the 
wreck;  "what  I  am,"  the  senses,  must  perish. 
Then  follow  those  two  verses  which  abruptly  shift 
the  scenery.  "We  see  the  ships  transformed  to 
"husks,"  the  "thought"  cargo  to  a  germ.  But 
the  germ's  life  will  rise  in  due  time  like  a  tongue 
of  green  flame,  and  it  is  therefore  said  to  "bum" 
before  our  eves. 

Glimpse  of  its  livingness  will  wave 
A  light  the  senses  can  discern 
Across  the  river  of  the  death, 
Their  close. 

Here  we  have  once  more  a  sudden  shift  of  the 
scene.  The  senses  are  neither  "ship"  nor 
"husk."  Behold,  thev  are  foot-sore  wavfarers. 
At  the  river  of  death  they  stop  dismayed.    It  is 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  231 

the  close  of  their  journey.  But  ere  they  drown 
in  their  hopeless  effort  to  ford  tlie  cold  stream, 
from  the  other  bank,  wliich  tliey  may  never  reach, 
a  ''light"  they  can  just  discern  is  "waved"  by 
the  ''thought"  that  was  before  a  sliip's  cargo, 
and  more  recently  a  germ.  Now,  taken  as  a 
whole,  this  is  a  tolerably  clear  case.  "We  can  dis- 
entangle the  knotted  threads  of  metaphor  and  en- 
joy each  by  itself. 

Sometimes,  however,  though  they  form  only  a 
mechanical  and  not  a  chemical  compound,  it  is 
more  difficult  to  isolate  the  figurative  elements. 

They  have  not  struck  the  roots  which  meet  the  fires 
Beneath,  and  bind  us  fast  with  Earth.  (p.  341.) 

Such  a  crowding  of  metaphors  mutually  exclu- 
sive into  one  single  statement  makes  severe  de- 
mands on  the  reader.  If  he  is  to  see  what  the 
poet  saw,  and  feel  what  he  felt,  he  will  have  to 
restate  imaginatively  the  complete  thought  as 
many  separate  times  as  there  are  figures  sug- 
gested; and,  after  appreciating  the  individual 
effect  in  turn  of  all  these  modes  of  expression, 
fuse  the  effects  together  in  one  general  impres- 
sion. Only  thus  can  the  abstract,  emotive,  or  in- 
tellectual results  of  the  series  of  poetic  visualiza- 
tions be  obtained — a  perhaps  less  poetic  result 
than  one  large  single  vision,  which  should  con- 
tinue in  the  reader's  memory  to  embody  the  whole 
thought  or  feeling — but  one  in  which  we  may  per- 
haps have  gained  as  much  in  life  as  we  have  lost 
in  aesthetic  repose. 


232  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

A  common   delight  will  drain 

The  rank  individual  fens 

Of  a  wound  refusing  to  heal 

While  the  old  worm  slavers  its  root.         (p.  366.) 

Here  we  are  made  first  to  think  of  fens  of  sorrow 
drained  by  dutiful  service  to  reason;  tlien  of  a 
wound  of  sorrow  healed  by  that  service;  then  of 
the  old  worm,  self,  slavering  the  root  of  the  sor- 
row— unless,  indeed,  the  slavering  worm  of  self  is 
to  be  understood  as  sorrow's  root. 

It  is  easy  to  see  how  such  a  method  works  con- 
fusion. We  have  here  really  the  ''catalogue"  of 
"Walt  Whitman  concealed  by  a  violent,  merely 
formal  sentence-structure.  Subject  and  predicate 
do  not  in  their  poetic  guise  recognize  each  other. 
A  critic  might  be  pardoned  if  he  should  declare 
that  Mr.  Meredith's  sentences  in  his  philosophical 
poems  are  frequently  algebraic  expressions  in 
need  of  factoring  ere  they  can  be  intelligently 
dealt  with,  and  that  he  sometimes  chuckles  au- 
dibly at  the  reader's  discomfiture  when  the  method 
of  factoring  is  far  from  obvious.  You  have  to 
meet  with  passages  like  this : 

On  the  thread  of  the  pasture  you  trace, 
By  the  river,  their  milk,  for  miles, 
Spotted  once  with  the  English  tent, 
In    days    of    the    tocsin 's    alarms, 
To  tower  of  the  tallest  of  piles 
The   country's  surveyor  breast  high. 

The  general  sense  is  clear,  but  who  is  expert  al- 
gebraist enough  to  factor  it  at  sight? 

Of  course,  the  studious  reader  experiences  a 
certain  intellectual  satisfaction  when  he  has  con- 
scientiously performed  his  task  and  proved  sue- 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  233 

cessful  at  it;  but,  to  be  frank,  it  is  not  exactly 
the  kind  of  satisfaction  lie  has  been  led  to  expect 
from  poetry  by  the  past  masters  of  the  art. 

All  this  is  said  by  one  who  fully  appreciates 
what  Mr.  Meredith  has  done;  who  could  not  pos- 
sibly content  himself  with  ''Modem  Love"  or  a 
selection;  who  insists  on  the  value  of  the  philo- 
sophic poems.  Forewarned  is  forearmed.  If  you 
know  the  nature  of  the  difficulties,  they  will  not 
appear  so  formidable.  Besides,  you  will  not  then 
court  the  humiliation  of  defeat  bv  attackinor  the 
philosophic  poems  in  an  hour  of  mental  weakness, 
when  really  in  need  of  the  rest  cure  which  Henry 
"Wadsworth  Longfellow  and  other  mild-mannered 
physicians  of  the  muse  are  ready,  nay,  eager 
enough  to  offer. 

IL    "Man." 

Now,  the  object  of  this  paper  is  to  unfold  in  the 
poet's  own  words  his  philosophy  of  life.  It  is 
the  same  philosoiDhy  that  generates  the  whole- 
some atmosphere  of  the  novels.  From  it,  as  moral 
deductions,  proceed  those  judgments  on  the  crea- 
tures of  his  imagination,  which  the  reader  may 
take,  if  unacquainted  with  his  poems,  for  spon- 
taneous and  special  oracles,  when  he  does  not, 
indeed,  resent  them  as  irrelevant  or  captious. 

If  the  difficulties  of  style  that  have  been  frank- 
ly admitted  keep  any  from  acquainting  themselves 
with  these  philosophical  poems,  we  shall  be  tempt- 
ed to  fling  at  them  his  own  words  about  the 
thrush  r 


234  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Heed  him  not,  the  loss  is  yours!' 

And  if,  indeed,  as  he  intimates,  he  be  only 

A  herald  of  a  million  bills, 

and  their  song  is  to  be  like  his,  as  presumably  it 
shall  (else  why  should  he  be  at  pains  to  announce 
them?),  does  it  not  seem  the  part  of  the  wisely 
valiant  man  to  make  terms  with  tliis  shrill-piping 
herald,  ere  the  whole  army  arrives  in  the  arro- 
gance of  numbers  ? 

Mine  are  these  new  fruitings,  rich, 
The  simple  to  the  common  brings; 

I  keep  the  youth  of  souls  who  pitch 
Their  joy  in  this  old  heart  of  things. 

Who  feel  the  Coming,  young  as  aye, 

Thrice  hopeful  on  the  ground  we  plow; 

Alive  for  life,  awake  to  die; 

One  voice  to  cheer  the  seedling  Now.' 

I  say  but  that  this  love  of  Earth  reveals 
A  soul  beside  our  own  to  quicken,  quell. 
Irradiate,  and  through  ruinous  floods  uplift." 

Such  is  his  own  account  of  the  special  prophetic 
burden  with  which  he  has  swung  himself  into  the 
saddle  of  his  lyric  Pegasus.  "We  wish  him  better 
luck  than  that  of  the  grim  rider  from  the  North- 
land, who  scared  Europe  with  ghosts  after  break- 
ing the  back  of  his  good  steed. 

Should  we  translate  into  more  prosaic  terms 
the  resolution  which  Mr.  Meredith  has  ventured 
not  only  to  frame  like  a  brave  picture  for  our  con- 
templation, but  actually  to  send  forth  into  the 
world  of  accomplished  deeds — we  might  say  that 
his  verse  shows  such   beauties   in   our   common 

»"The  Thrush  in  February,"  p.  327,  st.  2. 
'Ih..  sts.  15,   16. 
«"My  Theme,"  p.  207. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  235 

earth,  and  common  human  life,  as  are  revealed 
to  the  man  who  is  active,  courageous,  unselfish, 
hopeful,  simple  of  heart  and  mind;  not  as  they 
seem  to  them  who  substitute  fiction  for  fact,  mak- 
ing **the  truth"  "according  to  their  thirst;"*  nor 
as  they  seem  to  those  ''sons  of  facts,"  ''swinish 
grunters"  who  look  on  the  earth  as  their  "stye;" 
for  our  poet  sees  in  earth  the  mother  of  man, 
whom  to  love  is  the  joy  of  life,  and  whom  to  know, 
for  potentially  all  that  man  actually  is,  consti- 
tutes the  wisdom  which  renders  this  passionate 
loyal  son's  love  of  her  reasonable. 

As  a  poet  Mr.  Meredith  does  not,  we  dare  as- 
sert, use  his  rather  large  terminology  with  ab- 
solute strictness.  Yet,  in  a  general  way,  we  have 
a  right  to  suppose  that  one  who  is  constantly 
writing  of  flesh,  blood,  senses,  lusts,  heart,  self, 
personality,  bent,  instincts,  brain,  mind,  wits,  rea- 
son, soul  and  spirit  means  something  more  or  less 
definite  by  each  term.  There  may  be  duplicates 
in  the  full  list.  There  may  be  ambiguous  uses  of 
some.  "Senses"  means  now  the  organs  and  their 
action;  and  then  the  pleasures  incident  to  their 
action,  hence  becoming  synonjTiious  with  flesh, 
blood,  and  lusts.  "Self"  and  "personality"  may 
be  collective  terms  for  lusts  when  invading  higher 
domains  of  our  being.  "Bent"  in  the  brute  may 
be  "instinct"  in  the  man.  "Brain,"  "mind," 
"wits"  may  be  interchangeable  terms.  "Rea- 
son" might  connote  a  distinct  faculty,  or  it  might 

>"A  Ballad  of  Fair  Ladles  In  Revolt,"  st.  16. 


236  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

indicate  the  mode  of  the  mind's  proper  action  in 
fellowship  with  the  sensations.  ''Soul"  may  des- 
ignate the  purified  affections,  which,  in  their 
crude  state,  are  called  the  ''heart."  "Spirit"  is 
now  a  term  for  our  love  of  law,  our  moral  core; 
and  then  it  stands  for  that  mystical  imagination 
which  dreams  through  man  "the  better  than 
man. ' ' 

In  any  case,  we  shall  not  forget  that  Meredith, 
the  poet,  uses  words  to  content  his  ear  and  his 
fancy  quite  as  often  as  to  gratify  Meredith,  the 
psychologist. 

From  flesh  unto   spirit  man  grows, 

Even  here  on  the  sod  under  sun.  (p.  367.) 

This  is  the  first  article  of  his  creed.  Note  each 
word:  "Growth,"  not  miraculous  change ;  "here," 
not  hereafter,  thanks  to  the  "sod"  that  supports 
and  the  "sun"  that  gives  vital  heat.  But  he  is 
not  content  with  this  statement  of  fact.  Some 
might  admit  that  it  "grows"  when  it  chooses. 
Not  so; 

Flesh  unto  spirit  must  grow. 

There  is  no  choice,  no  escape  from  the  beauti- 
ful fatality ;  for  contend  we  shall  have  to  for  sheer 
existence,  and 

Contention  is   the  vital  force 

Whence   pluck  we  brain.  (p.  320.) 

If  we  look  out  abroad  at  humanity  in  our  day 
with  the  eye  of  the  true  seer,  it  is  "the  soul"  wo 
perceive  "unfold"  through  "blood  and   tears" 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  237 

(p.  348).  If  we  look  Lack  and  follow  history  to 
our  time,  we  behold 

The  tidal  multitude,   and   blind 

From   bestial  to  the  higher  breed 

By  fighting  (p.   331.) 

slowly  rise,  and  introspection  reveals  that 

We  battle 

For  the  smallest  grain  of  our  worth  (p.  364.) 

as  well  as  for  the  best  and  most  priceless  of  our 
treasures : 

Wisdom  is  won  of  its  fight, 

The  combat  incessant.  (p.  366.) 

Nay,  more  than  this,  the  highest  faculty,  which 
is  self  of  our  self,  it  also. 

Spirit,  is  wrought     .     .     .     through  strife!         (p.  187.) 

The  faculties  are  related.  They  derive  from  one 
another. 

Rose  in  brain  from  rose  in  blood.  (p.  80.) 

They  are  friendly  when  kept  for  mutual  service 
in  the  right  order  of  subjection. 

Just  reason  based  on  valiant  blood.  (p.  331.) 

Woe  to  reason,  if  it  fancies  justice  possible  with- 
out physical  valor!  Woe  to  the  blood,  if  it  dares 
be  unjust ! 

''Sensation  is  a  gracious  gift"  (p.  345);  but 
*' sensation  insurgent"  is  "haunted  of  broods" 
of  questions  (p.  368)  that  only  confuse  sensa- 
tion. **Brain"  is  the  *'sky  of  the  senses"  (p. 
320) ;  they  are  earth  to  that  sky.  Changing  the 
figure,  ''the  senses  are  the  vessel  of  the  thought" 
(p.  330),  and  they  should  be  steered  by  "brain" 


238  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

(pp.  320-1).  But,  mark  you,  what  were  a  helms- 
man without  a  ship  ?  In  the  service  of  brain  * '  the 
senses  must  traverse"  the  **Eoad  of  the  Eeal" 
''fresh" — not  blinded  by  preconceptions  and 
"with  a  love"  for  the  road  itself  that  '*no  scourge 
shall  abate"  (p.  364) — if  we  are  ever 

To  reach  the  lone  heights  where  we  scan 

In  the  mind's  rarer  vision  this  flesh.  (p.  364.) 

For  while  there  are  "holies  from  sense  withheld," 
to  which  only  "reason"  can  guide  (p.  365),  we 
shall  want  feet  as  well  as  a  knowledge  of  the  way. 

Furthermore, ' '  mind  of  man  and  bent  of  brute ' ' 
"equally  have  root"  in  earth  (p.  86).  Instinct 
is  not  to  be  despised,  for  it  is  thus  akin  to  mind. 
Indeed,  "just  reason"  would  be  content  if  it  could 
match  "the  instinct  bred  afield"  (p.  331);  and 
we  are  warned 

Not  one  instinct  to  efface 

Ere  reason  ripens  for  the  vacant  place.  (p.  197.) 

For  "reason"  is  not  yet  ripe — only  "man's" 
germinant  "fruit"  (p.  365) ;  yet,  even  now,  by  it 
is  the  "reason  hourly  fed"  (p.  332). 

In  its  turn  the  "strong  brain"  is  the  "station 
for  the  flight  of  soul"  (p.  321)  in  those  who  have 

Out  of  the  sensual  hive 
Grown  to  the  flower  of  brain. 

But  the  soul  depends  not  only  on  the  brain;  "the 
heart,  obedient  to  brain,  prompts  the  soul"  (p. 
362).  Yet  the  reason  cannot  dispense  with  service 
of  what  is  higher  than  it.  "No  branch  of  Eea- 
son's  growing"  is  to  be  "lopped."  Let,  therefore, 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  239 

** spirit  but  bo  lord  of  mind  to  guide  our  eyes,'* 
and  the  noblest  truths  shall  in  time  be  ours. 

Now,  it  is  clear  that  all  the  exhortations  of  the 
poet  would  be  quite  impertinent  were  nothing 
amiss  with  man.  It  is  a  fact  that  something  pre- 
vents man's  ''mind  bursting  the  chrysalis  of  the 
blind"  (p.  149)  and  seeing  truly  with  the  aid  of 
spirit.  It  is  the  ''distempered  devil  of  self,"  the 
*' glutton"  of  earth's  "fruits." 

Clearly  enough,  never 

'Till  our  lord  of  sensations  at  war, 

The  rebel,  the  heart,  yields  place 

To  brain;  (p.   362.) 

never  till  we  are  one  of  those  "who  in  harness 
the  mind  subser\^e,"  "having  mastered  sensa- 
tion" (p.  3G7),  which  always,  "at  a  stroke  on 
the  terrified  nerve,"  proves  "inane,"  and  would 
counsel  some  coward's  folly;  never  till  then  shall 
we  have  "earned"  our  "title"  to  ''read"  the 
truth  of  which  the  earth  is  but  a  glyph.  For  with- 
out the  spirit  we  cannot,  and 

The  spirit  comes  to  light 

Through  conquest  of  the  inner  beast.        (p.  320.) 

Now,  though  this  doctrine  gives  some  place  to 
asceticism,  it  refuses  to  view  the  "beast"  that 
must  be  conquered,  the  "sensation"  that  must  be 
mastered,  the  "heart"  that  must  be  forced  to 
submission,  as  in  themselves  evil.  They  are  part 
of  our  complete  glory.  It  is  only  their  insubordi- 
nation that  is  harmful.  !Men  are  indeed  to  "at- 
tain" the  "statute  of  the  gods,"  "not  forfeiting 
the  beast*'      (p.  378).    "Mind  and  body"  shall 


240  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

* '  lute  "a  *  *  perfect  concord. ' '  Again  and  again  we 
are  given  to  understand  that  it  is  a  calamity  when 
even  for  a  moment  ''the  nature"  is  ''divided  in 
three"— "heart,"  "brain,"  "soul"  (p.  357). 
The  highest  of  us  must  cherish  the  lowest  of  us  in 
its  place  and  for  its  function.  The  "mind"  must 
be  solidly  built  on  her  "foundation  of  earth's 
bed"  (p.  359),  for  then,  and  then  only, 

Never  is  earth  misread  by  brain.  (p.  320.) 

If  reason  has  any  pre-eminent  dignity,  it  is  that 
she  is  "our  bond  with  the  numbers."  She  classes 
us;  she  insists  on  fair  division;  she  limits  our 
claim  to  our  share;  she 

Wrestles  with  our  old  worm 

Self  in  the  narrow  and  wide. 

Relentless  quencher  of  lies, 

With  laughter  she  pierces  the  brute. 

Not  that  she  would  slay — she  has  no  hate,  there- 
fore no  murderous  intent — only  she  means  to 
"scour"  the  "loathed  recess  of  his  dens"  with 
that  "laughter"  which  is  light.  She  means  to 
"scatter  his  monstrous  bed"  of  comfortable  sloth, 
and  "hound  him  to  harrow  and  plow;"  for  the 
"self"  has  work  to  do.  Speculation  is  not  his 
business.  He  cannot  be  allowed  to  bias  the  mind 
by  his  roars  or  howls  of  greed  or  pain.  This 
' '  self, ' '  this  blind  craving,  was  the  driving  power. 
It  is  that  still.  But  it  drives  man  to  ruin  unless  it 
remains  in  gentle  control.  The  steam  that  can 
hurry  tons  of  freight  upon  its  way  must  yet  heed 
the  pressure  of  the  engineer's  hand,  and  bide  its 
time. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  241 

If  one.  would  be  blissful,  one  must  learn  to 
*'look  on  with  the  soul"*  only,  and  therefore  to 
''desire"  only  ''with  the  soul"  (p.  75),  to  love 
with  "the  love  over  I  and  me"  (p.  77),  so  that  at 
length  for  us  the 

Proud  letter  I 
Drops  prone  iiiul  void  as  any  thoughtless  dash,     (p.  195.) 

Then  shall  we,  indeed,  "spread  light"  and  "feel 
celestially,"**  for  we  shall  "crave  nothing"  (p. 
43)    but  to  sing  a  "song"  like  that  of  the  lark, 

Boraphically  free 

Of   taint   of  personality.  (p.   114.) 

Even  a  Callistes,  who  has  seen  the  Great  Moth- 
er herself,  and  in  whom  "whatsoever  to  men  is 
of  use"  will  unwittingly  spring  "worship  of  them 
who  bestow"  (p.  110),  ceases,  for  all  his  wisdom 
and  gratitude,  to  be  "sane  in  his  song"  "where 
the  cravings  begin."  For  only  he  in  whom  the 
"dragon  self"  is  not  slain,  but  silenced,  can  be- 
come 

The  voice  of  one  for  millions, 
In  whom  the  millions  rejoice 
For  giving  their  one  spirit  voice.  (p.  114.) 

III.     The  Earth. 

But  if,  indeed,  man  realizes  his  derivation  from 
lower  forms  of  life,  how  shall  he  regard  the  heav- 
enly home  which  has  witnessed  his  evolution  ?  Is 
the  earth  friend  or  foe  to  him?  To  the  man  whom 
Mr.  Meredith  would  have  us  be,  her  aspect  and  her 
office  are  a  mother's  that  nobly  loves  the  best 

*The  Woods  of  Westerman. 
♦♦The  lark  ascending. 


242  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

in  us,  whose  tenderness   conceals   itself  in  her 
pride. 

From  the  earliest  times  true  ''souls  of  love," 
filled  with  an  ardor  for  their  species,  have  in- 
variably ''divined"  a  "higher  breed,"  and  striv- 
en to  lead  the  "tidal  multitude"  to  it  from  their 
"bestial"  and  "blind"  condition.  They  readily 
recognized  in  this  their  ideal,  the  only  explanation 
of  the  Mother's  else  incomprehensible  dealings 
with  her  child.  Hers  also  was  the  "thought  to 
speed  the  race."  "Her  mystic  secret"  was  so 
dear  to  her  that,  rather  than  reveal  it,  she  would 
brook  being  misunderstood.  Yet  who  capable 
of  sympathizing  with  "her  passion  for  old  giant 
kind",  for  "champions  of  the  race,"  "warriors  of 
the  sighting  brain"  who  "give  worn  humanity 
new  youth,"  could  fail  to  apprehend  her  purpose? 
If  she  has  always  "scourged"  or  been  "her  off- 
spring's executioner,"  it  was  surely  for  the  sake 
of  her  holy  vow  to  produce  the  "stouter  stock." 

Life  is  at  her  grindstone  set, 

That  she  may  give  us  edging  keen.  (p.  320.) 

Behold  the  life  at  ease:  it  drifts. 

The  sharpened  life  commands  its  course.        (p.  320.) 

From  the  very  beginning  of  man 

Pain  and  Pleasure  on  each  hand 

Led  our  wild  steps  from  slimy  rock 

To  yonder  sweeps  of  garden  land,         (p.  332.) 

which  it  may  take  ages  yet  to  attain  and  possess. 
"Earth  yields  the  milk,"  to  be  sure,  for  the  hu- 
man suckling,  but  "she  will  soothe"  tenderlj^  his 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  243 

"need"  only,  ''not  his  desire."  For  her  heart 
is  full  of  a  fury  of  prophetic  love. 

Sons  of  strength  have  been 

Her  cherished  offspring  ever.  (p.  333.) 

As  in  the  past,  so  now;  as  now,  so  always  here- 
after; and  well  she  knows  that  wheresoever  ''bat- 
tle urges,"  there  "spring  heroes  many." 

She  who  dotes  over  ripeness  at  play, 

Bosiness  fondles    and  feeds, 

Guides  it  with  shepherding  hook 

To  her  sports  and  her  pastures  alway.       (p.  363.) 

She  who  "loves  laughter"  and  the  "kindly  lusts" 
when  the  "weak"  "wail,"  "the  wail  animal  in- 
fant," she  has  only  a  deaf  ear  and  an  iron  heart. 

Weep,  bleed,  rave,  writhe,  be  distraught — 

She  is  moveless.  (p.  363.) 

Not  she  gives  the  tear  for  the  tear.  (p.  363.) 

The  child  that  misreads  her  purpose  she  will 
not  spare,  for  it  is  he  who  needs  her  severity. 
She  is  proud  of  his  very  fire  of  hate.  But  of  them 
who  are  her  children  indeed,  after  the  spirit  as 
well  as  according  to  the  flesh,  of  them  is  she  jus- 
tified.   He 

Whom  the  century  tempests  call  son. 

Having  striven  to  rend  him  in  vain,  (p.  356.) 

who  has  not  got  thew  and  brawn  only  in  the  con- 
flict, but  has  been  in  the  end  able  to  "pluck 
brain"  also,  the  veritable  "man's  mind"  that 
knows  itself  the  "child  of  her  keen  rod,"  rich  in 
the  "hard  wisdom"  which  his  mother  earth  gave 
him,  he  assuredly  understands  that  if  she  seem  to 
be  of  "us  atomies  of  life  alive  unheeding,"  it  is 


244  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

not  that  she  hates  life,  but  is  "bent  on  life  to 
come."  It  is  clear  to  him  that  "in  her  clods"  is 
the  "footway  to  the  God  of  gods"  along  which  we 
must  pass,  while  for  the  sake  of  her  holy  hope  she 
drives  us,  using,  as  need  may  be,  "the  spur  and 
the  curb." 

She  does  not  willfully  leave  us  in  darkness; 
but  she  gives  us  no  more  light  than  we  can  bear. 
"If  we  will, "we  may  be  "wise"  "of  her  prompt- 
ings"; for  surely  she  never  ceases  to  whisj^er  the 
suggestive  words  in  our  ears.  The  "woodcutter 
Death, ' '  who  is  he,  if  not  a  disguise  of  our  Mother  ? 
We  fear  him,  we  hate  him?    Yet 

For  use  he  hews 
To  make  awake 
The  spirit  of  what  stuff  we  be,  (p.  383.) 

As  he  "clears"  our  globe,  we  may  be  satisfied 
it  is,  "though  wood  be  good,"  for  "braver" 
human  forests.  AAliatever  we  may  think,  however 
we  may  feel,  certain  it  is  beyond  doubt  that  for 
all  of  us  "the  end  is  one."  ""We  do  but  wax  for 
service."  We  must  actively  or  passively  be  a 
party  to  the  slaying  of  our  fellows,  and  some  day 
to  the  slaying  of  us,  that  "our  ground"  "may 
speed  the  seed  of  younger"  growths,  and  in  due 
time  be  more  royally  "crowned"  with  life.* 

Does  this  seem  a  monstrous  doctrine?  Shall 
we  rebel  at  the  thought  that  "we  breathe  but  to 
be  sword  or  block!"  Is  not  death  a  mere  word 
after  all?  a  mere  mark  and  disguise?    "The  fuel, 

•Woodman  and  Echo. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  245 

decay,  brightens  the  fire  of  renewal,"  If  "we 
wot  of  life"  it  is  "through  death."  Constantly 
among  the  living  we  "spy"  "how  each  feeds 
each."  Here  there  is  no  exception.  We  are  all 
"fed"  "by  Death  as  by  Life."  How  if  "the 
two"  fountains  of  our  nourishment  were  "one 
spring" — twin  breasts  of  the  same  mother? 
"Life  and  Death  in  one" — "whichever  is,  the 
other  is" — what  if  indeed  it  were  so — "one — as 
our  breath  in  and  out!"  At  all  events,  the  birds, 
when  they  pipe 

The  young  Earth's  bacchic  rout, 
The  race,  and  the  prize  of  the  race, 
Earth's   lustihead   pressing   to   sprout,  (p.   356.) 

are  really  quite  as  much  singing  of  death.  Death 
is  not  the  opposite  of  life,  but  of  birth;  and  both 
birth  and  death  are  but  names  for  the  single  proc- 
ess of  life,  "the  springing  to  be,"  "the  coming" 
which  is  "young  as  aye,"  at  all  times  the  same 
"seedling  Now." 

When,  at  length,  then,  we  have  understood  the 
conduct  of  our  Mother,  proved  her  "loving"  and 
"reasonable,"  only  more  ideally  and  constantly 
so  than  we,  it  remains  for  us  to  imitate  her  exam- 
ple. From  our  double  discovery  as  premises  we 
must  draw  the  ethical  and  sj^iritual  conclusions 
with  perfect  courage.  They  who  "read  aright 
her  meaning"  cannot  but  '^devoutly  serve,"  for 
the  "task"  of  their  Mother  "devolves  on  them." 
They  must  catch  her  "passion."  Nor  is  it  as 
though  they  might  refuse  service. 


246  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

This  breath,  her  gift,  has  only  choice 

Of  service — breathe  we  in  or  out.  (p.  332.) 

It  is  only  a  choice  between  unwillful  and  devout 
service,  the  slave's  or  the  son's. 

From  the  noble  thought,  then,  of  the  Mother's 
** loving"  and  ''reasonable"  temper  comes  our 
first  moral  maxim  of  work,  its  own  reward  in  the 
play  of  our  powers  and  their  normal  increase, 
**  Thrice  hopeful  on  the  ground  we  plow"  deem- 
ing it  **  enough  if  we  have  sped  the  plow  a  sea- 
son." 

A  cold  thing,  however,  will  our  morality  be  if  it 
is  not  fired  with  love;  and  only  that  which  lives 
can  be  most  satisfyingly  loved.  We  shall  begin, 
then,  our  religious  life  with  the  dogma  that  she  is 
a  "thing  alive  to  the  living,"  that  ''her  aspects 
mutably  swerve,"  but  **her  laws  immutably 
reign."    For 

Till  we  conceive  her  living  we  go  distraught, 

Seeing  she  lives,  and  of  her  joy  of  life 

Creatively  has  given  us  blood  and  breath,     (p.  187.) 

But  more ;  not  mere  animation  is  hers.  "We  must 
come  to  "know"  the  "life  of  her"  for  "spirit." 
Of  the  stars,  sisters  of  earth,  it  is  true  that  "the 
fire  is  in  them  whereof  we  are  born,"  else  how 
came  we  from  one  of  them?  When  by  the  mani- 
fold sacraments  of  earth  and  sky  and  stellar 
heavens  we  have  come  to  realize  that  everywhere 
"life  glistens  on  the  river  of  the  death,"  and  we 
see  about  us  among  our  fellow-beings  "battle," 
"loss,"  "ache,"  we  shall  "know"  it  for  earth's 
"pledge  of  vitality"  inexhaustible,  and  with  our 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  247 

"spirit  wrought  of  her  through  strife'*  we  shall 
"read  her  own"  spirit;  and  because  of  our  "love 
of  earth,"  which  the  singing  lark  instills,  "^n<s^ 
her  down  to  death,"  even  for  "the  love  that  lends 
her  grace  among  the  starry  fold. ' ' 

IV.     The  Invisible. 

To  many  this  view  of  man  and  the  earth  may 
seem  atheistic.  If  so,  it  will  be  because  they  can- 
not believe  in  a  "credible  God."  To  them  there 
is  war  in  heaven.  Seen  is  arrayed  against  un- 
seen. Having  used  their  eyes  to  little  or  no  pur- 
pose, they  tliink  ill  of  the  visible,  and  imagine, 
naturally  enough,  an  Invisible  to  their  liking. 
Such,  at  all  events,  is  a  succinct  statement  of  Mr. 
Meredith's  scrupulous  apology,  which  took  the 
shape  of  a  synoptic  philosophy  of  history  in  some- 
what unlovely  verse,  classified,  surely  not  for 
music's  sake,  with  "Songs  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy 
of  the  Earth." 

That  such  an  apology  should  have  been  written 
was  to  be  expected.  The  poet  could  not  remain 
long  unaware  how  offensive  to  many  must  be  the 
burden  of  his  manly  prophecy.  To  his  worthy 
British  public  a  "credible  God"  would  hardly 
seem  divine.  Efforts  to  make  our  faiths  produce 
into  the  unknown  the  lines  of  our  actual  knowl- 
edge, and  attach  our  religious  emotions  to  the 
common  and  normal  rather  than  to  the  peculiar 
and  unnatural,  they  would  resent  as  gross  mater- 


248  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

ialism  and  irreverent  impiety.     Only  one  hope 
with  this  public:  an  appeal  to  precedent. 

In  Mr.  Meredith's  loveliest  idyl,  ''A  Day  with 
the  Daughters  of  Hades,"  the  sweet  girl  goddess 
Skiagenia,  born  of  gloom,  convinces  the  reader 
that  the  wholesome  Hellenic  attitude  of  mingling 
love  and  awe  toward  the  Great  Mother  is  the  very 
same  suggested  to-day  by  evolutional  science 
when  envisaging  what  is  at  once  most  homelike 
and  most  strange  about  this  human  star  of  ours, 
that  encircles  with  perpetual  worship  her  solar 
God  of  light  and  heat  and  life,  concealing  all  the 
while  an  undefined,  vast  death  and  cold  and  dark- 
ness at  the  core.  But  what  cares  the  British  pub- 
lic for  such  a  precedent?  Has  it  not  been  led  to 
believe  that  the  Greeks  were  a  spiritually  shallow 
people,  thanks  to  flagrant  neglect  of  almost  all 
that  was  deep  in  them? 

So  there  was  left  for  Mr.  Meredith  no  possible 
way  of  obtaining  a  patient  hearing  for  a  theory 
which,  while  so  obviously  close  at  hand,  found 
through  the  ages  so  few  consistent  friends,  but 
that  of  apology.  He  must  account  for  the  general 
acceptance  of  the  more  fanciful  h>i3othesis.  It 
will  not  suffice  to  point  out  its  fallacious  charac- 
ter; he  must  also  expose  the  nature  of  its  insidi- 
ous fascination,  the  source  of  its  plausibility.  In 
the  following  paragraphs  the  attempt  shall  be 
made,  using  his  own  words  as  often  as  possible,  to 
state  Mr.  Meredith's  view  of  the  genesis  of  trans- 
cendentalism. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  249 

In  the  experience  of  the  most  undeveloped  man 
there  is  mueli  i^ain  and  little  pleasure.  lie  child-' 
ishly  ascribes  to  natui-e  his  own  motives.  He  tor- 
tures his  enemy.  What  then  are  his  sufferings 
but  the  malice  of  a  foe?  But  infrequent  though 
they  be,  he  has  pleasures  also.  Now  and  then  he 
is  warmed,  sheltered,  and  fed,  his  flesh  thrilled 
with  delight.  Can  there  be  one  spring  for  bitter 
and  sweet  waters?  Old  men,  discouraged  and  re- 
sentful, suggest  that  it  is  so.  Pleasures  are  ac- 
corded by  the  same  cruel  power — a  device  of  re- 
fined savagery  to  prevent  the  sufferer's  becoming 
inured  to  his  misery. 

Young  men,  however,  cannot  accept  this  view. 
They  observe  that  the  old  themselves  continue  to 
feed  the  flame  of  life,  to  fan  it  sedulously,  to  shield 
it  from  every  whiff  of  dangerous  wind.  They 
have  been  occasionally  thrilled  by  joys  too  intense 
to  be  held  in  memory  as  mere  malevolent  delu- 
sions. If  Nature  then  must  be  viewed  as  hostile 
and  wicked  because  inflicting  hardship,  peril, 
pain,  they  will  explain  their  actual  desire  to  live 
as  an  endurance  of  the  now  and  the  nigh  because 
of  a  faith  in  some  fictitious  hereafter  and  afar; 
and  lo,  we  have  the  visible  devil  and  the  invisible 
God  of  every  sensational  theology — the  original 
points  of  departure  for  all  transcendental  sys- 
tems of  thoaight. 

Put  thus,  it  all  seems  absurd — nay,  repulsive 
enough.  But  the  "old  men"  with  their  "sentence 
of  inverted  wit'*  it  is  impossible  to  tolerate.    Mr. 


250  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Meredith  bids  us,  ere  we  take  their  testimony  to 
life,  inquire  how  they  have  lived.  Nature  clearly 
shows  her  dislike  of  the  aged.  She  tolerates  them 
only  when  they  are  sunsets  to  noble  days. 

As  soon  now  as  man's  religion  has  come  to  con- 
sist of  an  unnatural  passion  for  the  Invisible  a 
strange  phenomenon  appears.  When  he  is  weak, 
defeated,  despondent,  when  his  ** senses"  are 
**  pricked  by  fright,"  when  he  indulges  in 
a  ''ventral  dream  of  peace,"  the  hope  of 
a  stye  somewhere  for  slothful  feeding,  he 
becomes  religious.  The  moment  he  is  strong 
and  successful,  he  is  amused  or  horrified 
to  discover  that  he  is  simply  irreligious.  Still 
he  knows  that  strength  and  success  may  not 
last.  It  is  well  to  provide  for  relapses,  failures. 
Hence  he  will  continue  to  attach  a  large  theoretic 
value  to  ''the  legends  that  sweep"  nature 
"aside."  He  will  extol  the  great  merits— for 
others,  and  incidentally  for  himself  (should  he  be 
unfortunate  enough  to  require  them) — of 

Assurance,  symbols,  saws, 

Kevelations  in  legends,  light 

To  eyes  rolling  in  darkness.  (p.  363.) 

But  in  due  time  man  begins  to  reflect  on  life,  to 
obser\^e  and  generalize.  He  cannot  but  perceive 
how  small  the  effect  of  these  precious  comforts  in 
man's  hours  of  need.  Doubt  begins,  then  doubt  of 
his  doubt. 

Nature,  of  course,  is  unnatural — that  is  to  say, 
inhuman — that  much  remains  sure.  The  crudest 
man  will  in  the  end  be  moved  by  contortions  and 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  251 

tears.  There  is  in  the  order  of  things  *'an  answer 
to  thoughts  or  deeds."  But  those  who  "cry  aloud 
for  an  opiate  hoon"  receive  small  comfort  from 
'*a  mother  whom  no  cry  can  melt,"  who  ''will 
shear"  the  ''woolly  beast"  that  bleats  too  pite- 
ously.  Yet  man  has  ceased  to  be  content  with  his 
original  dualism.  Somehow  he  must  fit  nature  to 
his  thought  of  the  "Invisible."  Hence  futile 
metaphysics — inquiries  that  are  doubts  disguised, 
questions  "that  sew  not  nor  spin,"  idle,  vexatious, 
working  only  the  total  confusion  of  him  who  har- 
bors them.    For  of  course 

A  mind  in  a  desolate  mood, 

With  the  "whither"  whose  echo  is  "whence,"      (p.  371.) 

will  become  in  times  of  distress  the  victim  of  con- 
tending passions. 

Now  to  the  Invisible  he  raves 
To  rend  him  from  her 

his  unacknowledged  Mother;  then,  his  cry  unan- 
swered, he  "craves  her  calm,  her  care,"  falling 
back  on  despised  material  solaces  and  distractions. 
But,  so  appealed  to,  the  Mother,  who  else  is  lavish 
of  her  boons,  becomes  obdurate. 

For  the  flesh  in  revolt  at  her  laws 

Neither  song,  nor  smile  in  ruth. 

Nor  promise  of  things  to  reveal, 

Has  she,  nor  a  word  she  saith: 

We  are  asking  her  wheels  to  pause. 

Well  knows  she  the  cry  of  unfaith.         (p.  363.) 

Then,  of  course,  there  Is  nothing  left  to  do  but  to 
turn  "afresh  to  the  Invisible,"  which  he  is  pleased 
to  imagine  "can  raise  him  high  with  vows  of  living 
faith,"    Ho  asks  no  more  for  relief.    He  has  be- 


252  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

come  modest  in  his  demands.  He  wishes  merely  fo 
have  his  belief  affirmed  by  some  "little  sign"  of 
''slaughtered  Nature,"  some  miracle  that  shall 
definitely  prove  that  the  power  of  Nature  over  him 
and  his  destiny  has  its  limits.  But  his  cry  is  in 
vain.  No  miracle  comes.  For  a  while  he  m'ay  con- 
tent himself  with  ''Legends."  He  may  indeed 
lash  himself  to  a  frenzy  and  "conjure  hnages." 
Yet  in  the  end,  sooner  or  later,  he  will  be  con- 
fronted by  the  fact  that  his  "cry  to  heaven  is  a 
cry"  to  the  earth  "he  would  evade,"  his  prayer  to 
the  Invisible  being  really  addressed  to  nature  and 
obtaining  from  nature  such  an  answer  as  it  is  en- 
titled to  receive.  At  no  time,  then,  in  man's  his- 
tory has  he  conceived  of  the  manly  religion  suited 
to  his  hours  of  strength  and  success.  Let  us  not 
be  dupes  of  professions.  The  British  people  vocif- 
erously sing, 

O  Paradise,  O  Paradise, 

Who  doth  not  crave  for  rest? 

Who  would  not  seek  that  happy  land,  etc., 

while  in  fact  they  build  up  an  empire  with  im- 
mense toil,  showing  that  they  mean  to  possess  as 
much  of  the  earth  as  they  can,  even  if  they  jeop- 
ardize their  heavenly  inheritance  by  a  lack  of 
meekness !  Actions  speak  louder  than  words.  As 
a  matter  of  history,  who  were  the  kind  of  men  that 
have  been  worshiped  as  heroes?  Those  who  in- 
dulged in  slavish  howls?  who  complained,  pleaded 
for  mercy?  who  offered  a  price  for  ease  and  hap- 
piness!   Nothing  of  the  sort.    Always  the  hero, 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  253 

lie,  whom  men  approved  and  wished  to  resemble, 
was 

A  creature  matched  with  strife 
To  meet  it  as  a  bride 

** through  self-forgetfulness  divine."  Surely  al- 
ways, whatever  our  theological  dualism  and  phil- 
osophical pessimism,  it  was  men  whose  ''love  of 
earth  was  deep"  that  we  set  apart  for  the  prac- 
tical worship  of  imitation.  They  always  were  un- 
speculative  men,  who  could  join  in  the  song  of  the 
woodland  sprites: 

We  question  not,  nor  ask 

The  silent  to  give  sound, 

The  hidden  to  unmask, 

The  distant  to   draw  near.  (p,  344.) 

They  despised — even  when  they  did  not  under- 
stand— 

Our  sensual  dreams 
Of  the   yearning   to   touch,   to   feel 

The  dark  impalpable  sure, 
To  have  the  unveiled  appear.  (p.  363.) 

They  assumed  themselves,  with  a  magnificent  hu- 
mility, to  be  revelations  and  incarnations  of  the 
spirit  of  earth.  They  refused  worship,  were  un- 
ostentatious, took  their  virtue  for  granted,  con- 
tent to  ''serve  and  pass  reward."  In  their  heart 
of  hearts,  whatever  their  external  religious  con- 
formity, they  pitied  him  who  "will  not  read" 
nature;  who,  "good  or  wise",  preferring  "with 
passion  self-obscured"  to  see  her  distorted 
through  a  subjective  medium, 

The  greed  to  touch,  to  view,  to  have,  to  live. 
Through  terror,  through  distrust; 


254  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Even  at  the  present  day,  then,  though  transcen- 
dentalists  in  the  closet,  and  theoretically  disloyal 
to  earth,  in  their  hero-worship  men  prove  that 
there  is  a  deeper,  saner,  devouter  religion  deep 
in  their  hearts.  In  their  hours  of  strength  and 
success  they  feel  it ;  but  they  are  prevented  from 
taking  it  seriously,  because  it  seems  so  inconsis- 
tent with  what  they  have  been  taught  to  regard  as 
sacred.  Yet  in  it  is  the  bitter  tonic  which  we  need 
in  our  sentimental  hours  when  we  cry  for  the  opi- 
ates. Mr.  Meredith  believes,  then,  that  the  re- 
ligion of  man  in  nature,  the  worship  of  strength, 
beauty,  courage,  magnanimity,  is  not  so  unfamil- 
iar to  us.  Can  we  not  join  the  hymn  of  the  heroes? 

Let  our  trust  be  firm  in  Good, 

Though   we  be   of  the  fasting; 
Our  questions  are  a  mortal  brood, 

Our  work  is  everlasting. 
We  children  of  Beneficence 

Are  in  its  being  sharers; 
And  "whither"  vainer  sounds  than  "whence" 

For  word  with  such  wayfarers.  (p.  346.) 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  weary  the  reader  show- 
ing by  quotations  in  what  way  this  tonic  will  do 
the  work  of  the  coveted  opiate ;  how,  in  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's  view,  it  comforts,  makes  strong,  and  there- 
fore consoles  more  effectively  than  the  senti- 
mental fictions  of  transcendentalists. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  255 

y. 

When  the  preceding  pages  were  written  the 
growing  fame  of  George  Meredith  had  come  to 
justify  commercially  the  appearance  of  his  col- 
lected poems,  as  well  as  a  volume  of  selections 
much  needed  to  win  him  new  friends  among  the 
more  timid  lovers  of  poetry.  Up  till  then  few  but 
the  youthfully  rash  or  the  inordinately  brave  had 
adventured  and  persevered.  True,  all  had  heard 
the  report  how  that  in  the  *' Woods  of  Wester- 
man"  one  might  chance  to  meet  face  to  face  the 
good  physician  Melampus,  or  that  at  its  farther 
edges  maybe  the  ''Skylark  Ascending"  might 
make  the  devout  hearer  ''feel  celestially",  bark- 
ening 

"The  song  seraphlcally  free 
Of  taint  of  personality" 

until  he  should  become  indeed 

"Through  self-forgetfulness  divine." 

True,  many  had  shared  with  Skiageneia  and 
Callistes  their  single  blessed  day  of  mutual  reve- 
lation. True,  many  had  made  their  pilgrimage 
to  the  Valley  where  innocent  love  abideth;  or  be- 
held on  the  heights,  one  breathless  time  at  least, 
the  Dawn  of  Color,  and  its  hallowed  meanings; 
or  shuddered  with  a  delicious  horror  recalling  the 
tale  of  Attila's  bridal  night; — which  several  ex- 
periences had,  by  the  way,  apparently  been  en- 
joyed without  special  prior  training  or  serious 
peril  to  life  and  limb.    Notwithstanding  the  pub- 


256  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

lished  volume  of  selections  was  a  reassurance  and 
a  more  alluring  invitation.  For  there  were  not 
lacking  such  as  feared  our  poet;  one  who  could 
mock,  for  instance,  the  Empedocles  of  an  Arnold, 
for  insufficiently  considering  the  aesthetic  aspects 
of  his  final  exit: — ''The  last  of  him  was  heels  in 
air";  one  who  could  expose  to  healthy  contempt 
the  ''bile-and-buskin  attitude"  of  Byron's  Man- 
fred; one  who  could  villainously  destroy  the 
moonshine  mood  of  our  poetic  "teens"  with  a 
cry  to  Hugo's  high-strung  Hernani: 

"O  the  horn,  the  horn, 
The  horn  of  the  old  gentleman." 

Surely  our  poet  is  not  to  be  met  after  dark,  if 
one  carry  about  him  any  treasure  of  false  senti- 
ment. And  many  no  doubt  had  cause  to  fear. 
Some  few  perhaps  on  the  publication  of  the  Se- 
lections perversely  regretted  that  their  singular 
cult  might  run  the  odious  risk  of  profanation; 
but  all  sincere  lovers  of  Meredith's  poetry  re- 
joiced, we  believe,  that  their  modest  propaganda 
had  the  practical  assistance  at  length  of  the 
needed  publications. 

A  word  of  George  Meredith's  last  volume,  "A 
Reading  of  Life."  To  cherishers  of  the  poems  of 
''The  Joy  of  the  Earth"  and  of  the  deep  and 
subtle  "Reading  of  Earth"  it  brought  no  new  mes- 
sage. Of  course,  the  book  was  perused  with 
breathless  excitement.  Had  some  ray  of  further 
light  pierced  the  darkness  for  our  seer?  Or  did 
he  behold  still  the  same  faithful  vision  of  a  God 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  257 

witliiu  things  as  tliey  are   for  the  heroic  will  to 
avow  and  serve? 

Nothing  new  in  thought.  Little  new  even  in 
method  of  expression.  Only  a  larger,  more  imme- 
diately intelligihle  statement  of  the  eternal  ques- 
tion of  pleasure  and  self-mastery;  the  prenatal 
history  of  man's  spiritual  life  in  the  mother-womb 
of  ever-gracious  nature ;  the  hopes  to  the  race  ma- 
turing in  the  loyal  individuals  who  accept  their 
vicarious  function  and  priestly  office. 

The  eightieth  birthday  of  George  Meredith 
made  apparent  to  the  dullest  observer  the  claims 
long  since  past  due  of  this  the  greatest  literary 
man  of  his  day.  The  tributes  to  him  were  on  all 
hands  generally  reverent  and  affectionate.  Ten- 
nyson, Browning,  Arnold,  and  Fitz-Gerald,  Ros- 
setti  and  Morris  were  gone.  Each  had  obtained 
his  mead  of  well-earned  praise.  Meredith  and 
Swinburne  alone  remained  of  the  greater  Vic- 
torian poets,  and  the  former  of  the  two  had  lived 
long  enough  to  come  into  his  own  at  last  (surely 
matter  for  congratulation) ;  and  glad  we  were 
and  surprised  to  realize  how  many  we  numbered, 
we  hitherto  silent  reverers  and  lovers  of  our  poet- 
sage.  And  now  we  have  heard  how  this  our  wisest 
among  the  true  sons  of  the  Muse  hath  fallen  on 
sleep,  we  do  not  doubt  that  many  and  curious  will 
be  the  searchings  of  heart.  To  be  sure,  the  obitu- 
ary eulogies  have  not  shown  more  than  moderate 
contrition  for  the  hitherto  deafness  of  many  an 
adder  that  refused  to  be  charmed.    A  kind  of  irri- 


258  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

tation  invariably  befalls  the  self-deemed  astute, 
when  they  are  compelled  to  admit  they  can  see 
but  as  thro'  a  glass  darkly.  The  difficulties  of 
Shakespeare,  the  inscrutable  mysteries  of  phrase 
and  cadence  in  Tennyson,  where  more  is  meant 
than  meets  the  mind;  the  vast  meaninglessness, 
made  up  of  countless  little  meanings,  of  a  Swin- 
burne, these  give  none  offence.  We  remember  the 
dramatic  action,  extol  the  dreamy  atmosphere,  take 
refuge  in  the  obfuscations  of  an  art-for-art's  sake 
teclmique.  But  the  fact  that  Meredith  has  baffled 
our  wits  is  remembered  against  him  even  in 
death.  Ah,  but  after,  comes  the  saner  re-appre- 
ciation! We  have  settled  down  in  the  midst  of 
such  many-columned  black-bordered  exploitation 
of  our  half-knowledge  to  a  vigorous,  and  what 
bodes  best,  a  modester  study  of  the  Master;  so 
that  ere  long  we  shall  doubtless  forget  whatever 
we  wrote  in  our  pique,  and  reconsider,  and  recog- 
nize George  Meredith's  real  greatness  in  sheer 
self-vindication. 

Browning  has  suffered  from  the  misguided 
praise  of  his  worst  work  by  Browningites  in  quest 
of  oracles;  Tennyson  somewhat  less  from  an  un- 
discriminating  glorification  of  all  his  verse, — good, 
bad,  and  indifferent, — because  of  its  imiform 
stylistic  excellence;  Morris  has  suffered  more 
than  either  by  a  natural  preference  today  for 
"Arts  and  Crafts" — reform,  and  the  loud  hero- 
ism of  Socialistic  agitation,  over  the  divinest  of 
poetic  paradises;  and  Arnold,  even,  in  some  de- 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  2.19 

gree  has  suffered  as  a  poet  by  his  successfully  con- 
ducted controversies  theological  and  aesthetic. 
George  Meredith  was  most  fortunate  then  in  be- 
ing generally  known  only  for  a  few  novels  of 
peculiar,  psychological,  and  imaginative  interest, 
but  caviare  to  the  multitude  of  readers;  too  evi- 
dently heterodox  to  bring  grist  to  the  preacher's 
mill,  as  did  Browning,  and  merit  therefore  homi- 
letic  exploitation ;  too  conservative  also  of  all  no- 
ble traditions  to  raise  the  shout  of  radicals-on- 
principle,  and  be  singled  out  for  eccentric  idol- 
worship  by  the  seekers  after  new  gods. 

These  novels,  moreover,  on  which  his  wider  repu- 
tation rested,  are  not  novels  as  any  hitherto.  The 
story  is  implied,  rather  than  told.  The  characters 
are  considered,  rather  than  dramatically  por- 
trayed. The  ideas  are  intimated  and  viewed  from 
many  fantastic  angles,  rather  than  set  forth  for 
acceptance.  It  is  all  play  of  the  mind — but  for 
the  mind  that  is  wide  awake,  alert,  agile,  sophis- 
ticated to  the  point  of  a  new  simplicity  born  of 
reaction,  sick  of  artifice,  and  interested  in  the  re- 
habilitation of  the  commonplace  by  its  subtler 
manifestations  of  the  rare  and  fair.  Nevertheless 
it  is  honest  play,  always  honest  play,  that  com- 
ments on  wholesome  bygone  work,  and  prepares 
for  vital  predicaments  to  come.  "Wlio  has  played 
thus  with  Meredith  in  his  novels — his  intellect 
a-tingle,  his  heart  enlarged  to  a  beni^gner  inclu- 
sion of  affairs  hitherto  alien,  his  imaginative 
senses;  rejoiced  yet  chastened — surely  he  has  had 


2G0  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

but  little  difficulty  in  recognizing  the  Spirit  of  the 
Poet,  as  one  and  the  same  with  that  of  the  thau- 
maturgist  in  prose  fiction.  The  same  attitude 
courageously  rational,  yet  ever  nobly  reverent  of 
the  flesh ;  the  same  aspiration  for  a  self-conscious- 
ness that  shall  duly  pass  by  subtle  degrees  from  a 
narrow  ignorant  to  a  larger  disciplined  oblivion 
of  individual  concerns ;  the  same  perception  of  an 
immanent  cosmic  wisdom  in  ignorancy,  instinct, 
ay,  and  in  the  very  follies  incident  to  social  life. 

And  what  a  range  besides  in  this  extraordinary 
fiction!  From  the  perfect  little  tale  of  sentiment 
in  which  a  Chloe  is  sainted,  or  from  the  burlesque, 
Arabesque  lyrico-ludicrous  extravaganza  of  Shag- 
pat  to  that  Supreme  Modern  Comedy  of  the 
Egoist,  and  the  amazing  maze  of  glosses  and  foot- 
notes to  the  Book  of  Life  with  which  he  bade  us 
his  whimsically  smiling  farewell !  Yet,  from  book 
to  book  migrates  the  same  Meredithian  spirit 
whom  we  know  in  more  exquisite  intimacy  as  the 
singer  of  those  athletic  songs  which  exalt  fact,  plus 
the  fiat  of  man's  soul,  as  the  worshipfully  divine. 

Neither  were  the  novels,  so-called,  chariots  of 
ease  for  the  defeated,  the  wounded,  the  way- 
weary.  Each  was  a  challenge  to  know  the  battle- 
thrill  in  concerns  intellectual  and  in  the  affairs 
of  the  social  spirit. 

But  so,  too,  some  of  us  believe  his  poetry  would 
gain  but  little  in  the  end  had  it  been  more  win- 
some than  it  is.  Such  as  love  our  poet  do  not  con- 
done the  difficulties  and  vaunted  obscurity  of  his 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  201 

])Ocms,  but  smile,  recalling  virile  initiations  under- 
gone of  themselves  in  strenuous  solitude  ere  tliey 
understood  and  presumed  to  enjoy.  The  very  diffi- 
culties have  '^ teased"  them  out  of  thought  into  a 
larger  faith,  elevated,  mystic,  yet  without  stultifi- 
cation. 

For,  such  as  love  our  poet,  love  in  chief  his  very 
inmost  personality.  As  they  live  with  his  best 
pieces,  these  draw  nearer,  and  as  they  draw  nearer 
wax  dearer.  Yet  no  one  is  found  among  his  ad- 
mirers and  reverers  to  extol  perversely  his  fail- 
ures in  craft,  his  baffling  eccentricities  of  style. 
The  great  and  beautiful  pieces  distinguish  them- 
selves almost  at  first  glance  for  what  they  are, 
and  the  remainder  we  cherish  for  whatever  kin- 
ship they  possess  with  his  masterpieces,  and  what 
l^recious  secrets  of  their  maker's  spirit  they  may 
chance  betray.  For  such  as  estimate  the  rank  of 
a  poet  by  the  amount  only  of  his  work  that  exhib- 
its the  very  highest  quality,  its  singular  rarity  in 
kind,  and  the  peculiar  indispensableness  of  the 
contribution  it  makes  to  mind  and  heart,  so  huge  a 
difference  in  rank  will  not  seem  to  obtain  after  all 
between  Tennyson  and  Meredith.  The  great  tech- 
nical dexterity  of  the  former  brings  almost  his  en- 
tire production  to  a  certain  level  of  merit ;  yet  the 
real  masterpieces  are  none  too  numerous.  Mere- 
dith can  claim  a  dozen  or  at  most  a  score  of  mas- 
terpieces, and  the  remainder  of  his  verse  is  de- 
ficient in  that  artistic  perfection  without  which  the 
best  thought  and  passion  will  not,  however  inter- 


262  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

esting  in  themselves,  constitute  great  poetry.  To 
him  who  dispenses  relative  praise  then  by  the 
amount  of  good  work,  Tennyson  is  a  great  and 
Meredith  a  minor  poet.  To  him  who  considers 
only  the  very  best  work  of  either, — which  must  be 
a  part,  forever,  in  any  antholog}^  of  English  poetry, 
— Meredith  appears  to  be  quite  the  peer  of  Tenny- 
son and  Browning ;  and.  because  of  the  exceeding 
rarity  and  preciousness  of  his  best  work,  safely 
along  with  them  in  the  number  of  England 's  greater 
poets.  The  reason  why  Tennyson  was  almost  im- 
mediately accepted,  Browning  only  after  a  long 
struggle,  and  Meredith  hardly  as  yet  to-day,  lies 
in  their  several  degrees  of  individual  originality, 
and  independence  from  familiar  models  of  poetic 
method  and  style.  Whoever  loved  Keats,  Shelley, 
Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  was  prepared  to  enjoy 
Tennyson.  He  recognized,  at  sight,  common  and 
therefore  familiar  elements.  Seeking  j^recedents 
for  Browning,  one  must  go  back  at  least  to  Sidney, 
John  Donne,  Ben  Jonson,  George  Herbert,  Fran- 
cis Quarles,  and  Shakespeare  in  his  passages  of 
reasoned  passion  and  passionate  metaphysic.  Ar- 
nold's poetry  had  the  authority  of  Goethe,  Leo- 
pard!, and  Heine,  besides  the  precedents  of  Sopho- 
cles, Wordsworth,  Byron,  and  Keats.  Neverthe- 
less, he  had  to  abide  patiently  his  turn.  Our  fore- 
fathers were  obliged  to  learn  the  ''great  lan- 
guage" of  W^ordsworth  as  if  it  had  been  a  foreign 
tongue.  No  wonder  then  we  have  seen  the  appre- 
ciation of  Meredith  grow  but  slowly,  and  the  rec- 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  2G3 

ognition  of  his  great  merit  uttered  with  cautious, 
nay  timorous  reserve.  Hence,  too,  the  justifica- 
tion of  critical  studies  and  popular  handbooks, 
which  assist  the  beginner  to  get  his  bearings  ere 
his  courage  fail  or  his  strength  be  prematurely 
exhausted.  Mr.  Richard  le  Gallienne^  and  Mr. 
George  Macaulay  Trevelyan^  seem  to  have  done 
their  pioneering  well ;  particularly  the  latter.  Mrs. 
Henderson^  betrays  a  little  amusing  irritation 
with  the  public's  natural  preference  for  Mere- 
dith's more  obvious  and  sensational  work;  but  in 
the  main  she  does  honest,  if  not  brilliant  service. 
As  for  Mr.  Basil  de  Lelincourt,  whose  aid  Mrs. 
Henderson  has  invoked,  one  can  justly  say  of  him 
that  he  appears  more  solicitous  of  his  own  reputa- 
tion as  connoisseur  and  wine-taster  to  god  Apollo 
than  of  the  presentation  and  espousal  of  his  cause. 

Now  it  ought  to  be  obvious,  a  universally  ac- 
cepted truism,  that  all  criticism  which  consists  in 
the  application  of  formal  principles  got  by  induc- 
tion from  previously  examined  literature,  must 
beg  the  question  adversely  in  the  case  of  produc- 
tions anywise  novel  in  form.  To  the  extent  nat- 
urally enough  of  his  aesthetic  innovations  in  the 
structure  and  style  of  his  novels,  or  in  the  manner 
of  his  poetic  conception  and  utterance,  academic 
criticism  governed  by  precedents,  and  deficient  in 
sympathetic  audacity ;  beholding  art  so  to  say  from 

» Richard  le  Gallionne.  George  Meredith :  Some  of  his  Char- 
acteristics.     1900. 

'George   Macaulay   Trevelyan.     The   Poetry   and   Philosophy   of 
George    Meredith. 

'  Mrs.  M.  Sturge  Henderson  and  Mr.  Basil  de  Lelincourt. 
George  Meredith :     Novelist,  Poet,  Reformer. 


264  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

the  consumer's  rather  than  from  the  producer's 
viewpoint;  cannot  but  judicially  condemn,  or  de- 
fer at  least  any  award  of  unmitigated  praise  to 
a  more  convenient  season,  after  the  death  of  all 
persons  concerned.  True,  our  poet  has  entered 
into  the  beyond;  but  the  set  standard  still  lives 
that  condemns  a  priori,  and  no  great  generally 
acknowedged  poet  is  now  left  to  speak  brave  words 
in  his  behalf.  To  attempt  an  estimate  is  not  so 
likely  to  be  profitable  at  present,  as  to  offer  an  ap- 
preciation. Hence  Mr.  Trevelyan  seems  so  much 
better  a  guide  to  the  student  of  Meredith's  poems 
than  Mr.  Basil  de  Lelincourt.  The  former  has 
the  divination  of  sympathy,  the  audacity  of  en- 
thusiasm, and  the  sanity  of  one  who  would  keep  a 
good  conscience  always,  but  would  err,  if  err  he 
must  (and  who  doth  not?)  on  the  affirmative  side. 
Who  is  there  will  dare  predict  to  what  extent  the 
greater  mental  agility  of  future  generations  will 
reduce  the  much-advertised  difficulties  of  George 
Meredith's  style?  The  suggestive  fact  remains 
that  to  those  who  have  long  loved  their  Meredith, 
such  poems  even  as  a  ''Faith  on  Trial"  and  the 
"Thrush  in  February"  begin  to  justify  them- 
selves poetically.  Old  readers  would  not  now  want 
a  greater  clearness  at  the  expense  of  the  inherent 
vital  energj';  more  rhythm,  lilt,  or  verbal  charm, 
if  thereby  the  spiritual  suggestiveness  were  in  any 
degree  lessened. 

In  other  words,  a  process  of  assimilation  goes 
on  between  readers  and  poet.    Who  to-day  among 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  265 

lovers  of  poetry  finds  tlie  ''Dark  Tower"  of 
Browning  unapproachable,  or  his  ''Nympholep- 
tos"  a  metapliysical  reljus?  So,  it  is  not  yet  time, 
till  sympathetic  advocacy  has  done  its  part  in  as- 
sisting the  process  of  assimilation,  to  close  def- 
initely the  inventory  of  our  poet's  masterpieces, 
because  of  our  own  personal  insusceptibility  to 
the  charm  of  the  remainder.  At  all  events, ' '  Love 
in  a  Valley",  "The  Romance  of  Youth",  and 
"Modern  Love",  the  tragedy  of  adult  disillusion; 
"Hard  Weather"  and  "South  Wester",  as  inter- 
pretations of  the  hostile  and  gracious  aspects  of 
Nature;  "The  Woods  of  Westerman"  and  the 
"Lark  Ascending",  as  the  lyric  praise  of  natural 
faith  and  human  selfishness;  "Melampus",  laud- 
ing the  good  physician  because  of  his  abounding 
love,  and  the  "Hymn  to  Color",  setting  forth  the 
mystic  oneness  of  life  and  death;  the  "Day  of  the 
Daughter  of  Hades",  singing  the  mystery  of  life 
as  twin  mystery  to  that  of  death,  and  the  "Woods- 
man and  Echo",  an  almost  too  onomatopoeic  Tyr- 
taean  rhyme,  persuading  to  a  courageous  setting- 
aside  of  the  present  which  belongs  to  us,  for  the 
better  future's  sake,  that  shall  belong  to  others; 
and  its  fairer  fellow,  "Woodland  Peace", — not  to 
forget  the  grim  and  eloquent  tolling  of  the  "Nup- 
tials of  Attila", — these  at  least  constitute  a  list 
of  things  no  reader  who  has  come  to  know  them 
at  all,  could  afford  not  to  reread  from  time  to 
time,  for  their  combined  ethical,  intellectual,  and 
aesthetic  spell.    So  much  without  suspicion  of  over- 


266  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

excited  advocacy  may  be  affirmed,  and  cannot 
easily  be  denied. 

In  conclusion,  let  the  ''Song  in  the  Songless" 
bear  testimony  to  the  tremendous  suggestive 
power  of  Meredith  at  his  best.  The  modern  ma- 
terialists, wrapping  their  omniscience  in  the  re- 
spectable robe  of  agnosticism,  have  performed  a 
marvelous  feat.  First  they  have  abstracted  man 
from  the  Universe,  and  scrutinized  the  remnant 
closely,  assuming  all  the  while  that  they  had  got 
out  of  it  themselves,  and  really  were  beholding  the 
world  as  it  would  be  if  man  were  not.  So  having 
reduced  all  but  man  to  mass  and  motion,  they  turn 
about  upon  man  in  turn,  and  explain  him  in  terms 
of  that  world  supposedly  construed  without  him. 
That  the  whole  procedure  is  reliable,  who  shall 
contend?  To  Meredith,  as  to  all  poets,  mystics 
and  philosophic  idealists,  it  appears  a  quite  illegit- 
imate procedure.  What  prestidigitation  to  no  ef- 
fect! Our  logic  may  be  flawless,  but  have  we 
played  fair  with  the  premises? 

"They  have  no  song,  the  sedges  dry, 
And  still  they  sing.    .    .    ." 

It  is  no  meaningless,  soulless  sound;  it  is  song, 
articulate,  melodiously  human.  For  after  all,  the 
sedges  and  I  are  akin. 

"It  is  within  my  breast  they  sing, 
As  I  pass  by." 

If  another  hears  no  song,  only  senseless  sound,  it 
may  be,  no  doubt,  due  to  the  nature  of  the  hearer, 
whoever  he  be;  of  course,  all  meaning  must  be 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  267 

subjectively  recreated,  and  for  the  deaf  there  is  no 

sound,  and  for  the  unmusical  no  song. 

"Within  my  breast  they  touch  a  string, — 
They  wake  a  sigh." 

Yes,  frankly,  it  is  in  me, — the  meaning  and  the 
human  value  of  the  meaning, — but  were  we  not 
akin  somehow,  they  could  not  elicit  any  such  re- 
sponse. 

"There  is  but  sound  of  sedges  dry." 

Apart  from  the  co-operation  of  my  soul,  to  be 
sure,  there  are  only  vibrations  of  the  ether ;  it  is 

"In  me,  they  sing." 

But  on  the  other  hand  what  occurs  in  me  is  no 
spontaneous  activity  of  my  own.  It  is  consciously 
a  response  to  their  initiative.  They  after  all  it  is 
who  sing,  although  it  be  only  in  me  they  should  so 
sing.  Man  and  Nature  are  one.  As  expressed 
elsewhere  by  our  poet  with  immediate  reference 

to  the  stars : 

"The  fire  is  in  them  whereof  we  are  bom," 

"We, 
To  them  are  everlastingly  allied." 

Any  view  of  Nature  by  man  from  which  he  has 
illegitimately  excluded  man,  must  be  untrue,  and 
an  offence  to  the  Life  of  Man.  Therefore,  Mere- 
dith, in  reply  to  materialistic  dogmatizing,  lilts  his 

little  lay  of  Humanism : 

"They  have  no  song,  the  sedges  dry, 
And  still  they  sing. 
It  is  within  my  breast  they  sing 

As  I  pass  by. 
Within  my  breast  they  touch  a  string, 

They  wake  a  sigh; 
There  is  but  sound  of  sedges  dry — 
In  me  they  sing." 

Sewanee,  June  25,  1909. 


WILLIAM    BLAKE— POET    AND    ARTIST.* 


To  write  popularly  of  a  man  who  has  remained 
obscure  to  the  general  reading  public  for  three- 
score years  and  ten  since  his  death  were  not  a 
mean  achievement.  By  an  instinct  no  host  of  crit- 
ics with  battle-axes  of  opprobrium  can  withstand, 
the  public  presses  forward  into  its  promised  coun- 
try. Some  leader  bids  the  sun  stop  in  midheaven 
while  the  critics  are  being  routed  in  fine  style. 
"What  we  want  comes  to  us.  We  are  drawn  to 
what  we  want.  We  may  not  know  what  we  want, 
it  may  not  know  we  shall  want  it,  but  apparently 
there  is  that  knows;  the  conjunction  takes  place. 
With  due  juxtaposition  a  sort  of  occult  chemical 
process  soon  disposes  of  wanted  and  wanter,  and 
you  shall  have,  whether  you  will  or  no,  a  new 
compound.  The  x)ublic  finds  a  Browning-poet,  and 
the  result  is,  a  public  that  wants — say,  a  Mere- 
dith-novelist ;  or,  put  it  vice  versa.  At  all  events, 
having  found  either  of  these  men,  with  their  won- 
drous work,  the  public  will  never  be  the  same 

♦These  two  papers  were  written,  and  appeared  as  a  Review  of  the 
Ellis  and  Yeats'  Edition  of  William  Blalce's  worlds,  published  by 
Quaritch,  and  are  reprinted  for  what  they  endeavored  to  be :  a 
sympathetic  impression  and  exposition  assuming  with  Blake  the 
subjective  truth  of  his  psychopathic  experience  analogous  to  those 
of  all  religious  originators  and  renovators.  Since  the  Ellis  and 
Yeats  Edition,  the  most  important  publication  is  the  Variorum  Edi- 
tion of  The  Poetical  Works  of  William  Blake,  edited  by  John 
Sampson.  The  Clarendon  Press.  A  lovely  reprint  of  the  Songs  of 
Innocence  and  of  Experience,  Alderbrlnk  Press,  Chicago. 

268 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  269 

again.  And  as  for  the  works  of  Browning  and 
Meredith — to  be  found  by  the  public,  involves  for 
them  a  change  also,  not  exactly  a  beautiful  **  sea- 
change,"  either!  What  is  absorbed  into  the  com- 
mon consciousness  becomes  commonplace.  Is 
there  anything  more  repulsive  than  the  truism  ut- 
tered with  oracular  pomp,  as  though  yet  likely  to 
shock  us  with  novelty?  Who  knows  how  much  of 
what  we  deem  true  gold  in  the  ore  of  Browning 
and  Meredith  may  not  come  to  seem  dross?  It  is 
the  unassimilable  that  alone  remains  the  same  for 
all  our  gastric  enterprise.  And,  so,  perhaps,  the 
didactic  elements  we  now  so  eagerly  absorb  will 
be  pardonable  only  for  the  sake  of  what  goes 
along  with  them,  which  will  remain  new  to  future 
generations,  and  which,  teasing  them  out  of 
thought,  will  yet  have  a  flavor  the  palate  has  not 
been  cloyed  with;  or,  maybe,  the  message  will  be 
forgiven  for  the  sake  of  the  obtrusive  style — the 
very  thing  we  are  all  but  unanimous  in  barely  con- 
doning. 

Now,  if,  after  a  hundred  years,  the  public  has 
not  found  a  book,  and  copies  have  become  precious 
to  bibliophiles,  who  revel  solely  in  books  that  must 
by  no  means  be  read  in  order  to  serve  sublimor 
ends,  as  a  species  of  masculine  bric-a-brac,  if  such 
has  been  the  deplorable  doom  of  a  book,  it  were 
hardly  of  much  use  to  attempt  its  popularization 
by  writing  popularly  about  it.  You  may  got  a 
hearing;  it  will  not.  Still  there  are  now  and  then 
exceptions  to  every  rule. 


270  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

Blake's  works  were  not  i^ublished  as  a  whole  till 
six  years  ago.^  Before  then  we  had  selections. 
Oh !  the  damnation  of  being  known  by  tidbits !  the 
double  damnation  of  being  known  through  "pic- 
turesque literature"  of  dilettante  litterateurs !  the 
treble  damnation  of  being  bruited  abroad  as  a 
posthumous  genius,  half  mad  or  wholly  so,  em- 
balmed in  anecdotes,  spirited  away  by  critics, 
praised  as  unintelligible,  patronized,  carefully  doc- 
tored by  editors,  schooled  in  one's  art,  shown 
where  one  did  decidedly  amiss,  where  one  might 
have  done  better,  perhaps,  and  what  by  all  means 
to  do  in  the  future  should  one  be  courageous 
enough  to  try  again,  and  all  this  when  one  has 
been  dead  from  two-score  to  three-score  years  and 
ten.  Poor  Blake !  Do  not  number  me  among  your 
stabbers,  right-handed  or  left-handed.  Call  me  a 
foolish  lover  who  is  not  ashamed  of  his  devotion, 
and  is  quite  ready  to  admit  that  the  chief  reason 
he  loves  you  so  much  is  that  you  have  hitherto 
baffled  him  and  promise  to  do  so  for  quite  a  while 
to  come.  Who  can  love  what  he  can  account  for, 
critically  set  apart,  and  then  with  prosaic  glue  of 
a  guarded  commendation  knit  tightly  together 
again?  You  can  treat  your  chairs  and  your  tables 
so  if  your  carpenter's  cunning  be  sufficient;  but 
your  friends,  your  flaming  leaders,  your  martyrs 
of  the  spirit,  never !  For  them  devout  enthusiasm 
and  worship.  Nothing  but  what  is  at  least  right 
reverently  agnostic !    If  you  presume  to  expound, 

'Even  then  at  the  unpopular  price,  "net  $25.00!" 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  271 

it  must  be  with  much  the  feeling  of  him  who  fought 
with  beasts  at  Ephesus. 

Some  people  admire  the  work  of  a  fool, 
For  it's  sure  to  keep  your  judgment  cool. 
It  doesn't  reproach  you  with  want  of  wit; 
It  is  not  like  a  lawyer  serving  a  writ. 

So  much  for  those  of  you  who  don't  care  about 
the  Blakes  of  this  world!  No  doubt,  of  course, 
you  keep  **cool"  what  ''judgment"  you  have,  not 
to  say  just  a  wee  bit  icy;  and  as  for  your  "want 
of  wit",  you  shall  be  blissfully  ignorant  thereof 
till  the  crack  of  doom. 

I  know  there  are  those  who,  of  another  class 
from  the  delectable  persons  addressed  in  Blake's 
doggerel  epigram  (in  which,  gentle  reader,  I  have 
only  included  you  for  rhetorical  effect) — yes,  there 
are  those  who  pretend  to  understand  the  incom- 
prehensible, who  put  on  an  owly  stare  of  wonder- 
ment at  our  stupidity,  and  think  they  delude  us 
into  suj)posing  the  wise  of  all  the  ages  have  given 
them  a  knowing  wink,  as  much  as  to  say,  ''You, 
too,  are  of  us."  But  of  such  I  will  boldly  affirm 
that  they  never  impose  on  any  but  themselves — 
and  their  like.  Of  these  I  honestly  believe  are 
few  among  Blake's  admirers.  Some,  no  doubt, 
but  I  repeat  it,  few.  To  understand  the  prophet 
Ezekiel  may  be  to  one's  credit,  and  worth  a  little 
schooling  in  stage  art,  grimaces  before  a  cracked 
looking-glass,  and  a  year's  bruises  to  attain  the 
proper  grace  in  falling.  To  understand  Blake  has 
not  yet  become  a  sign  of  intellectual  superiority. 
Among  his  admirers  and  his  expounders  there 


272  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

are,  at  all  events,  no  hypocrites,  unless  the  gods, 
to  ruin  them,  have  verily  made  them  mad. 

One  of  the  reasons  so  many  have  come  to  Blake 
from  the  four  quarters  of  the  earth  and  inter- 
preted him  so  diversely  is,  that  if  he  put  glass 
over  darkness  a  man  must  behold  his  own  face, 
do  he  what  he  please.  Nor  will  he  behold  it  dark- 
ly. But,  forgetting  straightway  what  manner  of 
man  he  is,  he  will  stoutly  declare,  "It  is  Blake," 
when  honestly  he  should  have  cried,  "It  is  I ! " 

Who  has  read  Mr.  Gilchrist's  beautiful  biogra- 
phy and  not  enjoyed  it?  To  be  sure,  Messrs.  Ellis 
and  Yeats  have  demonstrated  beyond  a  doubt  that 
Blake,  when  he  parted  company  with  the  Swedish 
sage  and  his  first  biographer,  was  not  so  mad  as 
the  latter 's  great  book  would  insinuate.  We  are 
never  over  just  to  heretics;  and  the  newer  our 
doctrine  the  fiercer  the  fury  we  visit  on  apostates. 
Even  so  mild,  so  sweet,  so  just  a  man  as  Mr.  Alex- 
ander Gilchrist  could  create  false  impressions  by 
skilful  omissions  of  words  necessary  to  the  sense. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  case  of  Blake's  being  mis- 
quoted from  Crabb  Robinson's  Diary,  saying  that 
"Christ  took  much  after  his  mother,"^  when  he 
actually  said  that  He ' '  took  much  after  his  mother, 
the  Law,"  as  his  last  editors  have  shown  us.^ 
This  is  one  of  many  alterations  by  suppression. 
Yet  there  have  been  shown  to  be  not  a  few  altera- 


'Life  of  William  Blake,  "pictor  ignotus"  by  Alexander  Gilchrist, 
Vol.  I.,  p.  354,      (1863.) 

'The  works  of  William  Blake,  edited  by  E.  J.  Ellis  and  W.  B. 
Yeats,  Vol.  I.,  p.  148,  Quaritch,  London,  1893. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  273 

tions  by  substitution  of  words.  Surely,  not  a  crit- 
ical way  of  proceeding!  It  may  be  that  Gilchrist 
saw  no  difference  between  the  readings  referred 
to  above.  Perhaps  he  thought  that  Christ's 
mother  was  so  obviously  not  Mary,  but  the  Law, 
that  the  latter  words  produced  a  tautological  effect ! 
What  Blake  actually  said  amounts  to  a  statement 
that  too  much  Judaism  had  survived  in  Christian- 
ity; that  its  Founder,  as  teacher,  was  toward  the 
Mosaic  doctrine,  his  w^as  to  fulfill  and  replace  (and 
whose  child  it  might  in  poetic  language  be  very 
properly  called),  far  too  gentle,  and  conservatively 
tender.  Quite  another  thing  from  suggesting  that 
bis  maternal  heredity  was  bad!  Yet  when  you 
have  read  New  Church  Publications,  in  which  the 
God-man's  double  psychology  is  carefully  account- 
ed for  by  a  double  heritage,  due  to  an  anomalous 
conception,  Mr.  Gilchrist's  reason  as  a  new  church- 
man for  the  omission  is  clear.  As  for  Frederick 
Tatham,  the  Irvingite  Angel,  his  interpretations 
were  drastic.  AVhat  ages  did  the  pious  man  spend 
poking  the  heretical  piles  of  Blakean  manuscripts 
as  they  curled,  blackened,  and  burned  in  his  in- 
quisitorial grate.  One  thing  is  certain,  we  can 
never  be  sure  he  was  wrong,  or  expose  his  uncrit- 
ical misinterpretations,  so  thorough  did  he  make 
his  commentary,  thanks  to  orthodox  heat  and  the 
omnipresent  egotistic  oxygen. 

Hardly  less  respectful  or  scholarly  were  the  two 
brothers,  of  whom  to  speak  otherwise  than  grate- 
fully as  students  of  Blake  were  ungenerous,  yet 


274  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

whom  it  is  not  dishonest  to  censure  as  Blake's 
latest  editors  have  done.  Let  us  be  honest  first, 
and  then  generous.  To  take  finished  poems  that 
seem  obscure,  and,  by  playing  a  patient  chess- 
game  with  the  stanzas,  make  poems  that  suit  one's 
fancy  better,  being  capable  of  a  pretty  interpre- 
tation quite  modern  and  germane  to  one 's  peculiar 
thinking,  is  reprehensible  enough,  even  though  the 
proceeding  be  inspired  by  misguided  enthusiasm. 
But  then,  if  one  believes  in  a  ''mad  chink  of 
Blake's  mind,"^  it  is,  of  course,  easier  to  dispose 
of  what  one  does  not  like  or  understand.  Much 
trouble  and  ingenuity  is  spared.  One  can  then 
praise  warmly,  and  one's  warmth  will  do  one's 
magnanimity  credit,  while  saving  one's  critical 
faculty  from  any  charges  of  aberration.  Not  that 
we  have  not  much  to  enjoy  in  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti's 
biographical  sketch  and  critique,  and  in  his  great 
poet-brother's  selection  of  poems  for  the  second 
volume  of  Gilchrist's  posthumously  published  bi- 
ography of  Blake.  Still  one  must  object  in  the 
name  of  fairness  to  the  high-handed  fashion 
of  his  reckless  improvement  of  the  original. 
Against  any  such  event  as  a  really  sympathetic 
critique  that  should  ' '  piece  together ' '  the  ' '  myths, 
trace  their  connection,  reason  out  their  system," 
and  declare  the  works  ''at  the  end  of  the  process, 
altogether  right  and  fine,  or  even  absolutely  free 
from  a  tinge  of  something  other  than  sanity," 
against  such  an  enterprise  as  that  of  Messrs.  Ellis 

^Prefatory   Memoir    to    W.    M.    Rossetti's    edition    of    The   Poetical 
Works  of  William  Blake   (1874)    (Aldine  Edition),  pp.  xxxviii-xc. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  275 

and  Yeats,  Mr.  Eossotti  armed  himself  boforobanc], 
it  would  seem,  in  tbe  cbain  mail  of  a  prejudg- 
ment.^ Sucb  editors  would  bave  arrived  at  a  con- 
clusion different  from  his!  A  consummation  de- 
voutly to  be  wisbed,  some  years  ago,  and  now  to  bo 
grateful  for  witb  proportionate  devoutness. 

Professed  finders  of  tbe  ''key"  (like  Faust's, 
that  takes  one  to  tbe  Mothers  of  awful  name), 
Messrs.  Ellis  and  Yeats  have,  at  all  events,  turned 
it  in  tbe  lock  back  and  forth  and  made  it  lift  the 
wards;  they  have  not  first  picked  the  lock  and 
then  pretended  to  use  their  key  witb  preternatural 
ease.  Besides,  we  bave  the  lock  to  look  at,  and 
take  to  pieces,  and  put  together  again.  And  tbe 
key  we  can  try  at  our  leisure. 

It  is  rather  delightful  to  witness  witb  bow  much 
vigor  and  rigor,  with  how  much  righteous  indig- 
nation, Mr.  Story2  and  Dr.  Garnett^  throw  away 
tbe  proffered  key.  They  will  have  none  of  it.  Ex- 
cept to  flourish  it  in  the  air  while  a  fine  sarcastic 
smile  plays  on  their  countenances,  and  to  exhibit 
by  contrast  their  own  far  simpler  way  of  dealing 
with  the  obstinate  door,  they  bave  no  use  for  it. 
According  to  them,  it  would  seem  that  the  door 
consists  of  many  separate  pieces,  each  with  its 
particular  hinge  and  bolt  or  lock.  Those  witb 
bolts  open,  by  all  means,  even  should  tbe  bolts 


»(Id.)  p.  cxxii. 

'WiUiam  Blake,  iJis  Life,  Character  and  Genius,  by  A.  T.  Story. 
Macmillan  &  Co.     1893. 

'WiUiam  Blake,  Painter  and  Port.  By  Richard  Garnott.  LL.D. 
Macmillan  &  Co.,  1895.  Published  in  The  Portfolio,  a  very  valua- 
ble, cheap,  and  profusely  illustrated  monograph. 


276  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

shriek  for  rust;  those  with  locks  settle  with  the 
critical  sledge-hammer  of  imputations  of  insanity 
or  senselessness.  In  you  must.  What  you  do  not 
understand,  term  wild  and  inane.  In  Crabb  Rob- 
inson fashion,  though  with  much  superior  intelli- 
gence, far  greater  symi^athy,  ''their  want  of  wit" 
they  will  ascribe  to  Blake,  and  the 'lawyer's  writ" 
they  will  escape  by  crossing  a  frontier  beyond 
which  the  fugitive  is  safe  for  lack  of  a  compre- 
hensive treaty  of  extradition. 

Still  it  were  untrue  to  say  that  these  men  have 
not  done,  each  in  his  way,  well;  particularly  the 
learned  Doctor.  Mr.  Story  should  have,  to  our 
mind,  been  more  wary  of  a  weakness  for  adorn- 
ing his  tale  with  anecdote.  He  positively  ends  in 
making  Blake  ridiculous.  Think  of  the  solemn- 
eyed  seer  impersonating  Adam,  with  Kate  for 
Eve,  without  the  embarrassing  fig-leaf  skirts,  and 
of  the  surprised  Adam  inviting  the  dumbfounded 
Mr.  Butts  in  to  judge  of  the  dramatic  perform- 
ance! What  a  tale  to  tell!  And  here  do  we  not 
catch  the  disease  by  quoting  it?  To  take  the 
stories,  true  or  untrue,  remembered  for  singular 
eccentricity,  and  without  the  context  of  usual  com- 
mon sense,  from  which  they  rose  as  the  Andes 
from  the  sea,  leaving  the  extravagant  morsels  to 
pass  for  samples  of  the  whole  career,  is  certainly 
unfair  treatment  of  any  man,  however  uninten- 
tional the  unfairness  mav  have  been. 

And  last,  let  us  turn  to  Mr.  Swinburne.  Ah, 
for  once,  let  me  confess,  I  enjoyed  that  past-mas- 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  111 

ter  in  verbal  jugglery.  What  eloquence!  A\Tiat 
"sound  and  fury"  in  so  just  a  cause!  What  posi- 
tive good  will!  ''One-eyed  among  the  blind," 
Messrs.  Ellis  and  Yeats  call  him.  Had  he  pos- 
sessed "two"  such  eyes  there  would  have  been 
surely  nothing  left  for  any  one  else  to  discover. 
At  all  events,  let  us  earnestly  hope  he  will  soon 
come  forth  reprinted,^  leaving  the  edition  now 
quoted  at  extravagant  prices  for  rarity's  sake  to 
the  bibliophile,  and  giving  the  lover  of  English 
that  masterpiece  of  criticism  by  a  "one-eyed" 
critic.  For  Mr.  Swinburne  does  not  rave  in  this 
instance  as  of  Hugo,  or  condescend  to  low  lan- 
guage of  abuse  as  in  the  case  of  Byron.  He  main- 
tains a  gentle  oscillation  between  enthusiasm  and 
criticism,  and  the  oscillating  is  done  in  masterful 
English.  One  need  not  care  for  Blake  to  care  for 
Mr.  Swinburne's  essay;  but  one  will  not  first  care 
for  the  latter  without  afterward  respecting  the 
former.-  One-eyed  no  doubt  he  is.  He  has  a  won- 
derful tenderness  for  Blake's  rebellion  against  law 
and  established  order;  in  Blake's  anger  at  the 
vaunted  virtues  of  mere  abstinence  he  revels. 
Hardly,  however,  does  he  make  us  perceive  with 
enough  clearness  that  Blake  scorned  the  lower 
virtue,  born  of  a  slavish  sense  of  duty,  only  for  a 
far  higher,  more  ethereal  virtue,  inspired  by  en- 
thusiasm for  the  beauty  of  holiness,  quite  spon- 
taneous and  unconscious,  the  righteousness    (to 

'The  essay  may  now  be  had  in  a  new  edition. 

^WiUiam  Blake.  A  Critical  Essay  by  A.  C.  Swinburne.     John  Cam- 
den Hotten.    London,  1S68. 


278  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

use  the  Pauline  phrase)  ''not  of  man,"  but  **of 
God." 

''Translated  into  crude,  practical  language^  his 
creed  was  about  this :  As  long  as  a  man  believes 
all  things  he  may  do  anything;  scepticism  (not 
sin)  is  alone  damnable,  being  the  one  thing  purely 
barren  and  negative ;  do  what  you  will  with  your 
body  as  long  as  you  refuse  it  leave  to  disprove  or 
deny  the  life  inherent  in  your  soul. '  '^ 

Mr.  Swinburne  fails  to  remind  us  that  you  can- 
not will  to  do  anything  with  your  body  that  is  im- 
pure or  selfish,  if  the  life  in  your  soul,  that  your 
spiritual  faith  produces,  is  such  as  Blake's.  St. 
Paul  was  opponent  of  law  and  apostle  of  faith; 
but  his  object,  quite  as  much  as  that  of  the  Phar- 
isee sect  he  left,  was  "righteousness."  By  faith 
it  was  to  be  attained  really.  Faith  was  the  better 
means.  The  perfect  knowledge  of  the  law,  he  de- 
clared, only  made  a  man  aware  of  his  sin,  his  fail- 
ures to  obey  it ;  while  perfect  faith  was  not  a  dis- 
coverer merely  (nay,  perhaps  a  concealer),  but  it 
was  instead  a  gradual  remover  of  sin.  It  ren- 
dered wilful  sin  impossible.  Even  Blake's  most 
violent  and  virulent  antinomianism,  his  most  ful- 
gurant  rebellion,  in  the  "Marriage  of  Heaven  and 
Hell",  is  not  a  protest  against  righteousness,  but 
against  a  mechanical,  conscious  system  of  pro- 
ducing it,  which  usually  substitutes  a  hypocritical 
"good  form"  for  the  Holy  Spirit  and  divine  en- 
thusiasm. 

'Id.,  p.   96. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  279 

Mr.  Swinburne  gives  us  a  valuable  hint  when 

he  says:*  "The  one  inlet  left  us  for  spiritual 
perception — that,  namely,   of  the   senses — is  but 

one  and  the  least  of  many  inlets  and  channels  of 
communication  now  destroj'-ed  or  perverted,  *  *  * 
a  tenet  which,  once  well  grasjoed  and  digested  by 
the  disciple,  will  further  his  understanding  of 
Blake  more  than  anything  else."  Now,  the  vin- 
dicator of  other  avenues  of  knowledge  than  sen- 
sation and  reasoning  about  sensation,  he  most  un- 
doubtedly was.  He  prayed  to  be  delivered  from 
** single  vision  and  Newton's  sleep."* 

If  the  sun  and  moon  should  doubt. 
They'd  immediately  go  out,' 

and  further, 

This  life's  five  windows  of  the  soul 
Distort  the  heavens  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  lead  you  to  believe  a  lie, 
When  you  see  with  not  through  the  eye.' 

for  such  a  proceeding  leads  you  to  imagine  the 
soul  insignificant,  and  material  mechanism  of  im- 
mense significance;   and  surely  such 

Humility  is  only  doubt. 

And  does  the  sun  and  moon  blot  out. 

But  to  this  matter  of  Mr.  Swinburne's  one-sided 
presentation  of  Blake  T  shall  return  later  on. 

It  is  well  to  remember  that  to  vindicate  Blake 
by  quotations  from  the  New  Testament  is  fair. 
He  believed  himself  to  be  a  Christian.  He  thought 

•Id.,  p.  242. 

i"Los  the   Terrible"!    last   lino.      W.    B.   Yeats'   edition   of   Blake's 
Poems,  p.  138.     Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     New  York.     1893. 
'"Proverbs,"  id.  p.  99. 
•"The  Everlasting  Gospel,"  id.  p.  113. 


280  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

lilmself  a  most  loyal  disciple  of  the  Master.  To 
be  sure  he  threw  the  prevailing  theology  to  the 
vv^inds.  It  was  to  him  profanely  michristian.  The 
doctrine  for  instance,  at  its  core,  of  a  "vicarious 
atonement"  he  denounced  as  immoral.  \Ye  have 
this  on  unquestionable  evidence — the  Diary  of  Mr. 
Eobinson.  In  such  a  unique  idea  of  the  Christ  as 
should  exclude  the  rest  of  the  race  from  a  po- 
tential realization  of  the  same  degree  of  God- 
consciousness  and  God-power,  he,  most  evidently, 
did  not  believe.  Still  he  did  not  sympathize  in 
religious  matters  with  his  friend,  Mr.  Thomas 
Paine,  and  the  rest  of  the  radical  men  of  his  day. 
He  thought  it  better  to  believe  as  the  common 
people  did,  in  the  divine  exclusively  in  one  man, 
than  to  believe  in  the  divine  in  no  man.  Better 
yet,  of  course,  it  were,  according  to  Blake,  to  be- 
lieve in  God  as  the  very  Self  of  all.  No  wonder, 
however,  Mr.  Crabb  Eobinson,  orthodox  and  un- 
spiritual,  was  shocked,  and  thought  Mr.  Blake 
had  an  insane  fit  when  he  declared  Jesus  was  the 
only  God!  yet  added  [may  we  infer  a  pause, 
significant  of  different  degrees  of  divine  realiza- 
tion?] ''and  so  am  I,  and  so  are  you!" 

Mr.  Swinburne's  one  eye  is  excellent.  The  eye 
he  lacked  for  the  task  of  understanding  Blake's 
message  as  a  whole  was  the  eye  of  sympathy  with 
the  spirit  of  the  New  Testament  and  the  mysti- 
cism of  the  Christian  centuries;  this  eye  was  put 
out  by  his  own  paganism  and  positivism,  so  that 
the  Blake  he  sees  is  a  mere  Titan  storming  the 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  281 

Olympus  of  Moral  Codes;  a  liurler  of  lightning- 
bolts,  clutched  from  the  relaxed  hand  of  a  slain 
Jove,  into  the  stronghold  of  traditional  thinking; 
a  sort  of  air-clearing  thunderstorm  of  terrific  ve- 
hemence— leaving  a  man  to  obey  the  spirit — 
which,  unfortunately  for  lack  of  the  other  eye, 
Mr.  Swinburne  interprets,  not  as  the  Holy  One, 
but  as  one's  own  sweet  private  will! 

For  the  labors  of  all  these  men  we  are  deeply 
in  their  debt.  The  student  will  read  them  all 
again  and  again  till  he  understand  them  (and  in 
the  case  of  Mr.  Swinburne's  Essay  the  task 
will  be  no  light  one),  and  then,  obedient  to  each, 
he  will  forget  all  the  other  critics  for  Blake  him- 
self, if  not  in  the  complete  edition  (rather  high 
priced  for  the  proverbial  poverty-stricken  student 
and  poet  lover)  at  least  in  Mr.  Yeats'  beautiful 
little  volume  which  contains  the  poems  and  co- 
pious selections  from  the  ''Prophetic  Books." 
The  Aldine  edition  and  such  a  volume — too  cheap 
to  be  good — as  !Mr.  Joseph  Skipsey's  Selections'* 
(alas,  so  far,  most  of  the  people  I  have  met  read 
Blake  in  these  only!)  he  will  conscientiously 
avoid  as  liable  to  produce  entirely  false  impres- 
sions. He  will  leave  (alas,  many  who  dipcuss 
Blake  do  not!)  the  selections  of  Mr.  Carr^  and  ^Ir. 
Miles^  to  satisfy  the  undergraduate  and  the  dUet- 

■<The  Poems,  with  Specimens  of  the  Prose  Writitigs  of  William 
Blnke  with  a  prefatory  notice  by  Joseph  Skipsey,  Walter  Scott, 
London.  18  S3. 

'Mr.  J.  Comyns  Carr  in  Vol.  Ill  of  The  English  Poets,  edited  by 
T.   H.   Ward.     Macmillan  &  Co. 

'In  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  Century,  edited  by  A.  H.  Miles. 
Vol.  I,  Hutchins  &  Co.,  London. 


282  WILLIAM  ILAKE 

tante ;  though  surely  the  latter  should  be  thanked 
for  giving  Blake  his  mere  due,  as  "anticipating 
the  Lake  Poets,"  and  treating  him  sweetly  as  well 
as  seriously,  even  if  one  may  be  permitted  to 
smile  when  he  expresses  his  preference,  both  for 
''lyrical  gift"  as  well  as  for  ''literary  finish,"  of 
the  "Poetical  Sketches"  to  the  poet's  maturer 
works ! 

Before  I  plunge  deeper  into  my  subject  let  me 
remind  the  reader  that  I  nowise  profess  to  un- 
derstand fully  all  the  mystical  explanations  of 
Messrs.  Ellis  and  Yeats.  What  it  has  taken  them 
years  and  years  to  write,  it  may  be  supposed  will 
take  a  reader  like  me  years  and  years  and  years 
to  understand.  I  will  write  merely  as  one  much 
aided  by  them,  feeling  free  to  appropriate  what- 
ever has  helped  him  to  enjoy  Blake  more. 

"I  dreamt  a  dream!    What  can  it  mean!" 

says  Blake,  as  he  begins  "The  Angel. "^  Un- 
doubtedly all  his  dreams  have  meaning.  Only  we 
must  beware  of  such  a  slavish  interpretation  as 
will  claim  to  have  a  definite  sense  for  every  min- 
ute part  of  every  poem.  The  parallelism  between 
the  things  of  the  flesh  and  the  things  of  the  spirit 
is  never  so  perfect  as  to  permit  the  construction 
of  a  flawless  allegory.  The  poet  has  the  choice  to 
make  between  perpetual  significance,  with  fre- 
quent preposterousness  of  the  tale  as  tale,  and 
unity,  grace,  charm  in  the  poem,  with  occasional 
lapses  from  sense.     The  gold  of  meaning  has  t(^ 

«W.  B.  Yeats'  edition,  p.  73. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  283 

suffer  alloy  for  the  sake  of  the  formal  hardness 
that  will  fit  it  to  pass  current  as  coin.    That  there 
should  be  meaningless  i)hrases  only  enhances  the 
delight  when  one  discovers  the  meaning  of  the 
rest;   shine  is  relieved  by  shade.     Besides  these 
meaningless  details  suggest  that  no  mere  mean- 
ing is  sufficient,  that  no  view  of  any  seer  is  ade- 
quate to  the  truth.     The  vaguely  vast  suggests 
the    illimitable,  the    indefinite,  the    infinite;    the 
senseless,  what  is  too  much  for  sense.    But  with 
Blake  the  first  thing  requisite  is  to  realize  that  his 
trope  is  not  simile  or  metaphor,  but  symbol.    It  is 
not  on  likeness,  jiicturesque  or  abstract,  that  his 
rhetorical  figure  is  based.    It  is  not  because  of  a 
common  attribute  or  element  that  two  things  are 
brought  together,  or  substituted  for  one  another. 
It  is  because  the  mutual  relations  of  two  sets  of 
objects  are  the  same,  that  any  member  of  either 
series  is  substituted  for  the  corresponding  mem- 
ber.   To  one  who  read  the  Bible  by  the  light  of 
the    Swodenborgian   doctrine   of  correspondence, 
a  symbolic  style  was  natural.     The  Lord,  Israel, 
idolatry,  punishment  for  it,  atonement;    the  pa- 
triarchal husband  who  owned  his  wife,  the  slave- 
wife,   unfaithfulness,    repudiation,    recondliation, 
constitute  unfailing  features  of  Hebrew  prophecy. 
There  is  no  resemblance  between  the  two  series, 
term  by  term.    Is  the  Lord  a  married  man?  Is- 
rael a  buxom  bride?     Idolatry  wifely  infidelity? 
Punishment  for  sin  ejection  from  an  irate  hus- 
bimd's  tent?    Atonement  the  settlement  of  a  con- 


284  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

jugal  difficulty  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  husband, 
and  the  return  to  bed  and  board  of  a  repudiated 
wifel  Yet,  manifestly,  while  there  is  no  sort  of 
resemblance  term  bv  term,  the  relation  of  the 
terms  in  each  series  is  the  same  as  of  those  in  the 
other.  Now  it  is  clear  how  powerful  and  familiar 
a  figure  is  the  symbol.  Into  current  language 
many  a  one  has  passed  from  the  Hebrew  sacred 
writings,  so  that  doubtless  there  are  those  who 
fancy  it  is  a  simile  when  we  declare  ''we  are  all  as 
sheep  gone  astray!" 

Now,  of  course  all  was  grist  to  Blake's  sym- 
bolical mill — the  man  he  knew  or  heard  of,  the  his- 
torical characters  he  read  about,  lolots  in  popular 
tales.  Is  an  event  any  less  fit  to  be  a  significant 
symbol  because  historical!  Shall  not  Washington 
be  ''patriotism!"  To  say  that  one  has  felt  dem- 
ocratic and  patriotic,  is  not  to  speak  half  so  in- 
telligibly as  to  declare  that  one  has  been  favored 
by  George  Washington  with  an  interview!  Why 
should  not  London  and  Canterbuiy  serve  as  well 
as  Sodom  or  Babylon,  or  Jerusalem,  provided  of 
course  the  reader  does  not  take  the  poet  too  lit- 
erally? "Persons  served"  in  Blake's  writing 
"for  adjectives  and  substantives"  at  the  same 
time,  while  their  actions  replaced  verbs  and  their 
grouping  propositions. ^  Now  this  was  not  with 
him  a  trick  of  rhetoric.  It  was  native  to  the  stjde 
of  his  writing,  because  native  to  the  man.  He 
was  obliged,  as  the  statuary  and  the  painter  are, 

'Ellis  and  Yeats'  Memoir,  Blake's  Works,  Vol.  1,  p.  114. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  285 

to  personify  all  abstracts  in  order  to  give  them 
visibility  and  make  them  matter  for  his  art.  AVhen 
persons  were  ready  to  offer  themselves  to  him, 
why  create  imaginary  persons'?  Thus  in  Blake's 
writing  mythical  beings  of  the  substantiality  of 
Ossian's  mist-men  and  women  mingle  with  per- 
sonages from  actual  life.  Things  "happened  for 
an  allegory"  to  him  as  to  St.  Paul.  Not  that  they 
did  not  happen,  only  they  ''happened  for  an  alle- 
gory," and  their  having  "happened"  is  quite  a 
secondary  consideration  by  the  side  of  their  being 
pregnant  with  meaning. 

But  this  manner  of  thinking  in  terms  of  "men," 
"things,"  and  "events"^  might  pass  merely  for 
a  strange  fantasticalness  in  the  man;  the  result 
of  a  man  born  to  be  sculptor  or  painter  writing 
poetry  and  art-criticism.  We  have,  however,  to 
deal  with  another  element  of  his  stvle  in  his  great- 
est  works,  that  tries  the  patience  of  the  prosaic 
reader  so  successfully  as  to  constitute  the  ordeal 
that  bars  him  forever  from  initiation  into  the 
Blakean  mysteries.  His  stories  are  stationary. 
Time  is  left  out  of  reckoning.  Or,  to  say  the  same 
thing  in  other  terms,  there  is  a  recurrence  of  the 
similar,  with  as  little  consciousness  that  it  might 
seem  tedious  as  there  is  in  the  sea's  repeated 
nmibling  upon  the  beach.  He  was  a  bom  musi- 
cian. With  fine  ear  and  melodic  imagination,  he 
would  improvise  "songs."  His  last  earthly  hours 

=This  habit  of  dealing  with  contemporaries  has  led  to  dangerous 
misinterpretations,  such  as  those  of  Rossettl  concerning,  c.  ff.,  tho 
relations  of  Blalte  and  the  poet,  Hayley. 


286  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

were  spent  "making  the  rafters  ring"  (to  quote 
his  friend  Tatham),  with  "songs  to  melodies,  both 
the  inspiration  of  the  moment,"  as  Gilchrist  has 
it.i 

Undoubtedly  his  method  is  a  good  one.  Men's 
stupidity  when  confronted  with  a  spiritual  truth 
is  proverbial.  Iteration  is  not  a  useless  expedient 
in  the  class  room ;  and  in  the  world,  if  the  matter 
be  weighty,  iteration  and  reiteration  are  abso- 
lutely necessary  would  one  gain  an  intelligent 
hearing.  Particularly,  should  the  poet  use  sym- 
bols which  are  likely  to  be  misapprehended,  it  is 
by  repetitions  with  variation  (as  a  melody  is 
treated  in  a  symphonic  composition)  that  we  shall 
be  prevented  from  rushing  on  with  the  plot  of  the 
tale  into  the  meaningless,  where  the  fancy  dis- 
ports itself  like  a  lion's  cub,  and  be  brought  back 
again  and  again  to  the  theme,  our  mind  kept  sta- 
tionary, so  to  say,  before  the  actual  sense. 

This  characteristic  of  his  style  has  affinity  to 
the  method  of  the  Hebrew  prophets.  No  chrono- 
logical, no  logical  sequence  can  always  be  estab- 
lished. A  unity  of  intention  is  all  that  we  can 
clearly  perceive,  which  alone  is  enough  to  vouch 
for  the  sanity  of  the  poet  and  the  worth  of  his 
work.  In  this  respect  also  there  is  a  kinship  be- 
tween Blake's  style  and  TVliitman's  (though  to 
me,  who  love  both,  it  seems  as  if  the  resemblance 
of  style  ceases  here,  and  has  been  greatly  exag- 
gerated) ;  unity  of  mood  is  substituted  by  Whit- 

^Gilchrist's  Life  of  Blake,  Vol.  I,  p.   361. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  287 

man  for  unity  of  plot,  place,  and  time.  The 
''Mood"  acts  as  does  our  optical  egotism,  which 
arranges  all  the  independent  elements  of  the  land- 
scape into  an  illusory  whole  ordered  with  respect 
to  our  eye.  Suppose,  however,  that  ordering  to 
be  unchangeably  fixed  with  respect  to  one  partic- 
ular point  of  view — not  automatically  self-read- 
justing as  in  the  case  of  landscape  and  eye — what 
chaos  would  not  appear  to  the  man  for  whom  it 
should  be  out  of  focus !  No  wonder  prosaic  read- 
ers sometimes  fancy  Blake  and  Whitman  mad. 

Yet  even  this  could  be  to  some  extent  condoned 
— a  certain  monotony  and  recurrence  of  incident 
— if  the  biographers  had  not  quoted  contempo- 
rary suspicions  of  lunacy,  and  thus  given  such 
ample  evidence  for  a  successful  relegation  hence- 
forward of  all  Blake's  works  to  the  Bedlam  of  lit- 
erature. 

He  saw  visions!  a  priori  that  condemns  him; 
though  one  may  feel  a  little  uneasy,  if  one  has  a 
bone  of  consistency  in  one's  body,  as  to  the  men- 
tal status  of  the  Paul  of  the  third  heaven,  and  of 
the  John  of  Patmos.  If  a  priori  it  condemns 
Blake,  it  condemns  them  also.  One  remembers  that 
the  master  of  these  ''inspired  madmen"  was  pub- 
licly railed  at  by  the  intellectual  aristocracy  of 
his  time  (not  without  provocation,  to  be  sure),  as 
"having  a  devdl" — in  plain  English,  as  being  sub- 
ject to  insane  hallucinations  and  fixed  ideas.  Of 
course,  Swedenborg  because  he  was  a  statesman 
and  a  practical  scientist  was  sane ;  but  because  he 


288  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

was  a  prophet  was  insane ;  sane  and  insane  at  the 
same  time — probably  rapid  interchanges  of  both 
mental  conditions  like  expiration  and  inspiration 
of  the  lungs !  Any  theory,  never  so  absurd,  rath- 
er than  to  any  extent  accredit  his  seershipl 
Boehme,  without  a  doubt,  was  a  harmless  lunatic. 
Insanity  would  not  interfere  with  cobbling.  He 
was  not  born  in  apostolic  days,  nor  was  he  a  He- 
brew prophet;  how,  then,  could  he  be  both  sane 
and  a  habitual  seer  of  \^sions?  And  the  rest  of 
the  prophetic  fraternity  we  shall,  as  sensible  men, 
find  cells  for,  and  straight-jackets  if  there  be  any 
indications  of  incipient  prophetic  fury!  Heavens, 
how  would  it  fare  with  Isaiah,  First  and  Second, 
Jeremiah,  Ezekiel,  Daniel,  and  the  Minor  Twelve 
in  our  generation!  As  for  the  terribly  efficacious 
Elijah  who  left  no  literary  or  any  other  sort  of 
remains,  and  Elisha,  who  got  double  portion  of 
his  master's  spirit,  what  we  should  do  with  them 
had  they  the  bad  taste  to  trouble  us,  is  clearest 
when  left  unspoken!  Visions?  Let  us  stop  to 
consider. 

Not  materializations  of  the  seance-room,  \isible 
and  tangible;  nor  ghosts  or  phantoms  vampire- 
like borrowing  vital  energy  (or,  in  more  accept- 
able language,  subsisting  for  us  only  in  virtue  of 
disease,  excitement,  fear),  and  apparently  objec- 
tive, visible  if  not  tangible;  not  hallucinations 
like  those  of  drunkard  or  maniac  that  seem  to  be 
part  and  parcel  of  the  objective  world,  taking 
their  place  among  things  and  people,  of  the  same 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  289 

order  of  reality  to  all  semblance  as  they,  and 
therefore  inspiring  terror;  hut  visions  all  the 
same,  obeying  the  nod  of  the  magician  (when  he 
became  master  of  himself),  retreating  into  the 
caverns  of  his  brain  to  dwell  as  babes  in  limbo, 
until  wanted  once  more  by  the  seer. 

In  unmistakable  language  Blake  declared  his 
visions  subjective.^  Yet  he  believed  them  to  be 
uot  his  creations.  Though  proceeding  from  his 
mind,  they  were  due  to  "influences  set  going  by 
the  characters  of  men''  of  whom  he  drew  his  "pic- 
torial opinions,"  to  quote  Messrs.  Ellis  and  Yeats.2 
The  thought-world  is  essentially  one.  Thoughts 
are  men,  he  was  wont  to  say.  To  think  of  Ezekiel 
is  to  summon  his  sj^irit  from  the  "vasty  deep." 
Not  that  you  and  I  see  Ezekiel.  "We  see  nothing 
at  all.  If  the  word  brings  any  image,  it  is  that 
of  a  book  to  most  of  us  unintelligible,  tedious,  ex- 
travagant in  style.  But  Blake  saw  Ezekiel,  or 
rather  Blake's  "idea  of  Ezekiel,"  so  much  of 
Ezekiel  as  Blake  was.  Blake  saw  the  "Ezekiel  in 
Blake!"  So  it  is  with  us.  AVe  do  not  see  our 
friend,  but  so  much  of  him  as  corresponds  to  our 
capacity  for  apprehension.  Xo  wonder  no  man  is 
to  us  as  solid  as  ourself !  We  get  our  whole  self 
and  at  best  a  fragment  of  ourself  when  we  try  to 
get  another!  The  difference  between  us  and 
Blake  is  that,  accustomed  to  think  in  terms  of  sen- 
sible forai,  he  saw  what  we,  in  his  place,  should 
have  merely  thought.     So  our   relations    to    our 

'Cf.  Ellis  and  Yeats'  Worlds  of  Blake,  Vol.  I.  pp.  95-96. 
»Cf.  Id.  p.  123. 


290  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

tlioug'lits  were  in  his  case    objective    fellowship 
with  imaginary  persons. 

Now  Blake  desired  every  man  to  verify  his 
visions,  to  see  for  himself.  All  men,  he  thought, 
had  the  same  gift — only  they  had  not  cultivated 
it  as  he  had.  The  imagination  makes  ' '  forms  more 
real  than  living  man,"  to  quote  Shelley.  Of  course. 
For  let  us  again  consider.  The  inventor  sits  with 
closed  eyes.  He  sees  his  machine.  Not  as  you  and 
I  should,  were  his  idea  to  take  on  iron  (for  flesh), 
and  deafen  the  ear,  and  trouble  the  eye  with  gy- 
rating wheels  and  spinning  balls  and  shuttling 
rods,  until  we  were  giddy.  We  could  then  see  the 
outside.  The  machinist  would  see  all  the  hidden 
anatomy,  so  to  say.  For  him  the  heart  would  be 
pumping  the  blood  visibly.  We  should  have  to 
stop  the  mechanism  to  take  it  apart;  dissect  the 
body  for  science'  sake.  He  can  let  it  live,  yet 
know  it;  and  know  it  better  because  he  knows 
its  life.  Such  is  the  power  of  vizualization.  With 
most  of  us  it  is  rudimentary.  You  lie  down  in 
an  orchard  in  spring-tide  robe  of  blossoms,  and 
you  behold  your  first  love,  snatched  back  from  the 
grave;  no  ghost,  beautiful,  vital.  You  dare  not 
move,  not  even  in  thought,  or  the  vision  vanishes. 
Blake  would  have  summoned  the  vision,  engaged 
her  in  conversation,  and  kissed  her  for  aught  I 
know,  all  the  while  in  the  snowfall  of  the  apple 
blossoms  shaken  about  him  by  the  wind.  Why 
not,  pray?  You  would  if  you  could.  Don't  be 
jealous  of  him  because  he  can.    His  "accomplish- 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  291 

ment'*  will  not  interfere  with  you.  Should  he 
even  kiss  his  vision  of  vour  first  love,  it  is  noth- 
ing  surely  taken  from  you  that  was  yours;  it  is 
the  tribute  the  seen  pays  to  the  seer — the  tribute 
rendered  cheerfully  by  the  objective  world  from 
day  to  day  to  the  least  of  us  ordinary  human  crea- 
tures for  a  respectful  recognition! 

But  you  and  I  at  our  day-dreams — nay  our 
night-dreams — fasting,  or  after  a  plentiful  meal 
alike — are  the  sjDort  of  our  tricksy  visions ;  so  was 
Blake  for  a  season.  In  time,  however,  he  asserted 
his  suzerainty  over  the  underlords  of  the  debat- 
able territory;  and  the  visions  asked  leave  to 
come  and  go,  and  appeared  and  bowed  themselves 
out  as  courtiers  in  the  royal  presence.  No  tres- 
passing on  his  work-time  was  allowed  to  translu- 
nary  visitors.  Never  so  ethereal,  they  had  to  mind 
the  rules  of  his  daily  schedule  of  duties.  But  for 
years  he  struggled.  It  was  very  hard  to  co-ordi- 
nate the  two  states  of  consciousness  so  unlike; 
to  be  both  seer  and  recorder  or  artist  at  one  and 
the  same  time;  to  use  the  spiritual  sense  to  take 
in  the  vision  and  the  carnal  to  verify  what  pen  or 
graver  or  brush  had  done  toward  translating  it 
for  the  spiritually  blind,  into  the  language  of  mor- 
tals. But  he  succeeded  so  well  that  doubtless  he 
might  ask  Helena  of  Troy  to  favor  him  with  a 
three-quarters  profile,  if  he  preferred  it  to  her 
less  classic  full-face,  let  us  say;  and  she  would 
have  obeyed  him  with  the  most  bewitching  smile, 
and  a  flash  of  acquiescence  let  loose  from  under 


292  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

cloud-white  brows  that  would  brand  the  blue  of 
her  eye  forever  in  memory. 

But  Blake  hated  ''Memory."  Not  daughters  of 
Memory  were  the  true  Muses !  unless  memory  be 
understood  in  that  transcendental  sense  of  Pla- 
tonizers,  when  souls  are  said  to  come  "trailing 
clouds  of  glory"  from  "heaven"  their  "home." 
Memorv  as  the  storehouse  of  sense-knowledge  he 
feared,  and  therefore  hated.  If  overwhelmed  with 
sensual  experience,  the  spirit  could  not  be  free. 
Faith  in  unseen  spirit  might  be  slain  by  faith  in 
oft-seen  flesh  too  well  remembered.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  him  that  the  memories  (the  ghosts,  so 
to  say,  of  old  sensations)  could  have  any  contrib- 
utory value,  when  a  new  perception  was  possible 
to  him,  better  than  the  old !  It  is  the  ancient  con- 
troversy between  the  adherents  of  tradition  and 
dogma,  and  immediate  inspiration;  of  majority 
rule  and  of  the  Holy  Spirit;  of  the  remembered 
individual  past  and  the  imagined  general  future; 
of  the  actual,  rather,  and  of  the  ideal  that  is  be- 
ing steadily  realized,  but  is  not  yet. 

Still,  it  is  hardly  fair  to  say  that  in  his  art  he 
wilfully  ignored  the  model.  He  studied  his  own 
body  and  his  wife's.  ^NHiether  Butts  saw  them  or 
not  in  the  garden  bower,  we  see  them  again  and 
again  on  his  illumined  pages.  To  say  that  he 
hated  drawing  and  painting  from  the  model  is 
one  thing;  that  he  hated  the  knowledge  of 
human  anatomy,  as  something  that  has 
become     unconscious,     and     only      serves      to 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  293 

guard  the  hand  of  the  artist  from  me- 
chanical error,  while  not  interfering  with  the 
freedom  of  his  mental  eye,  were  to  say  another. 
That  he  did  not  believe  Titian  or  Rubens  to  be 
artists  as  divine  as  Angelo,  Raphael,  and  Diirer 
we  can  grant.  That  to  him  to  ''feel  the  model" 
in  a  painter's  work  seemed  reprehensible,  we  do 
not  wonder.  Look  at  your  model,  my  artist,  if 
you  please,  but  let  her  be  merely  your  anatomical 
text-book,  not  your  artist's  bible,  comprising  all 
your  inspiration  between  head  and  heels  as  be- 
tween cover  and  cover;  climb  hills  of  meaner  sort 
to  practice  muscles  and  joints  before  you  attempt 
Ploreb  or  Sinai  or  Pisgah!  See  your  models  be- 
fore 5'ou  paint  your  visions.  But  on  the  Holy 
Mount  you  will  have  too  much  to  think  of  things 
divine,  to  remember  your  athletic  feats  on  ordi- 
nary hills!  Titian  and  Rubens,  Blake  thought, 
painted  men  and  women,  and  gave  mythological 
names  to  account  for  nudity  and  lascivious  atti- 
tudes; Angelo,  Raphael,  and  Diirer  saw  divine 
beauty,  and  sought  for  means  in  the  sensual 
world  whereby  to  express  it  in  part  at  least.  The 
"Satanic"  twain  apotheosized  the  flesh;  the 
"Christian"  three  brought  heaven  down.  So  he 
might  have  put  the  matter. 

But  why  the  "Christian"  three?  Why  speak  of 
"imagination"  in  the  three,  and  "plagiarism"  or 
"memory"  in  the  twain?  Because  art  is  to  im- 
press the  spiritual  on  the  sensible,  to  inject  the 
ideal  into  the  actual  world,  and  realize  it  for  men. 


294  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

Hence  to  him  evangelization  and  art- work  are  one 
calling;  Christ  and  His  apostles  were  the  chief 
of  artists.^  Did  they  not  make  spiritual  men  out 
of  natural  men?  beautiful  characters  out  of  ugly 
nondescript  human  material? 

Shall  to  produce  form  out  of  unshaped  stuff 
Be  Art — and  further,  to  evoke  a  soul 
From  form  be  nothing? 

(Browning's  "Pippa  Passes".) 

Of  course  not!  Art  of  the  highest  sort!  Blake 
himself  was  prophet  as  well  as  poet  and  painter. 
To  sing,  to  draw,  to  color,  and  to  preach  were 
kindred  ways  of  doing  one  and  the  same  thing. 
But,  master  of  two  arts,  it  was  impossible  that  he 
should  say  the  same  thing  simultaneously  in  text 
and  marginal  illumination.  Indeed,  he  never  draws 
out  of  the  text  what  is  there,  even  when  he  illus- 
trates the  literary  works  of  masters  like  Dante^ 
or  Milton.  Some  measure  of  faithfulness  to  their 
'Conceptions  there  must  of  course  be,  for  those  are 
dictators  in  two  republics  of  letters.  As  for  Young 
and  Blair,  they  can  be  safely  left  in  their  literary 
Hades,  while  the  illustrator  ascends  the  heavens 
from  first  to  seventh.  In  his  own  work,  however, 
it  was  possible  to  carry  out  his  theory  to  the  full. 
The  illustrator  should  give  not  what  the  text  sup- 
plies, but  what  it  does  not  and  can  not  give.  Why 
play  the  melody  on  the  instrument  when  the  sing- 

'Cf.  Swinburne's  Essay,  pp.  86-99  for  a  wholly  un-Blakean  vindi- 
cation of  Blake's  work  from  charges  of  Immorality.  On  the  "art 
for  art's  sake"  heresy,  he  would  have  us  excuse  what  as  a  matter 
of  fact  is  in  need  (when  understood)  of  no  apology. 

*Three  valuable  articles  on  William  Blake  and  his  Illustrations  to 
the  Divine  Comedy  have  appeared  in  numbers  of  the  Savoy  (July — 
September,  1896,)  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats,  with  illustra- 
tions. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  295 

er  gives  it  better?  Can  you  not  furnish  hannon- 
ies?  Supply  allusions,  illustrations,  comment! 
Can  you  not  follow  out  suggestions,  develop  the 
latent?  Run  in  sympathetic  parallel, ^  in  brilliant 
paradoxical  contrast?  So  does  the  true  accom- 
panist. So  does  the  true  illustrator.  It  is  noth- 
ing against  this  method  that  Anne  Radcliffe  should 
furnish  a  suggestion  for  the  Preludium  to  "Eu- 
rope, a  Prophecy.""'  Surely  she  may  furnish  a 
highwayman,  if  our  national  history  yields  a  pic- 
torial symbol  for  patriotism.  All,  as  we  said  be- 
fore, was  grist  to  Blake's  symbolic  wind-mill. 
Why  tvind-miWl  AVell,  because  we  prefer  it  to 
water-mill,  bad  as  it  is.  Wind  and  water  are 
themselves  diverse  symbols.  The  latter  signifies 
instinct,  as  the  former  does  the  affections.  Un- 
fortunately for  us  we  have  no  mill  whose  mechan- 
ism is  driven  by  sunlight;  for  sunlight  signifies 
with  Blake,  both  brilliancy  and  heat,  the  intellect 
fired  by  the  divdne.  Ilis  mill  of  sjTnbolism  was 
then  not  even  a  ivind-miW,  but,  let  us  venture  it,  a 
''light-imW 

And  so  I  have  stumbled  upon  Blake's  symbolic 
system  such  as  we  know  it  from  his  extant  works, 
but  I  shall  reserve  what  I  have  to  say  about  it 
for  another  paper. 


'It  is  surprising  to  find  in  Vala,  for  Instance,  words  descriptive  of 
illustrations  to  earlier  prophetic  books,  and  this  not  once,  but  re- 
peatedly. Rather  suggestive  of  the  consistent  unity  of  Blake's 
myth,  one  might  think? 

«Cf.  Swinburne's  Essay,  pp.  238-239. 


296  WILLIAM  BLAKE 


WILLIAM  BLAKE— MYSTIC. 


PART  II. 


So  far  as  I  understand  it,  Blake's  gospel  is  a 
purely  psychological  one.  Man  is,  ronglily  speak- 
ing, constituted  of  intelligence,  affections,  in- 
stincts, and  vital  energy;  brain,  breast,  stomach 
and  bones,  let  us  say,  though  we  are  not  accus- 
tomed to  assigning  the  latter  twain  a  pseudo-anat- 
omical abiding  place.  If  there  is  something  wrong 
with  man,  it  can  only  be  that  he  lacks  other  ele- 
ments, or  that  the  elements  he  has  do  not  co-oper- 
ate harmoniously.  Perhaps  both  diagnoses  of  his 
dis-*'ease"  are  right.  Blake  might  put  it,  that 
man's  four  constituent  elements  work  ill  together 
because  he  lacks  a  fifth.  If  he  could  get  this  fifth, 
the  other  four  would  so  co-operate  as  to  be  one — 
no  longer  distinguishable.  The  machine  has  parts, 
the  organism  members.  If  we  have  parts,  it  is 
because  we  lack  the  organizing  principle.  The  or- 
ganizing principle  is  the  consciousness  (perpet- 
ual, normal,  serene)  of  God.  The  ideal  man  does 
not,  according  to  Blake,  think,  feel,  become  aware 
of  unintelligent  prompting,  bid  his  body  do  this  or 
that.  He  does  not  distinguish  truth,  because  he 
knows  nought  false;  he  does  not  distinguish  good 
because  he  knows  no  evil :  he  does  not  distinguish 
beauty,  because  he  knows  no  ugliness;  he  simply 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  297 

is  truth,  good,  beauty ;  they  are  his  attributes ;  he 
knows  them  directly  as  himself.  To  "understand" 
involves  contrast,  discord.  One  has  to  eat  of  the 
tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  of  evil  to  have 
a  conscious  morality  or  a  conscience.  The  per- 
fect man  has  no  conscience.  He  has  knowledge  of 
God  as  his  Self;  knowledge  of  himself  as  God's. 
Even  between  himself  and  God  the  distinction  is 
due  to  his  own  incomplete  development  only,  to 
his  partial  realization  as  yet  of  God.  When  he  is 
perfected,  he  will  not  distmgmsh  God.  The  time 
will  have  come  of  which  St.  Paul  writes,  when  God 
shall  be  all  in  all.^  He  will  he  Ilim.  His  last 
properly  human  word  will  be  a  "declaration"  not 
of  human  dependence  or  devilish  self-dependence, 
but  of  a  conscious  divine  identity.  Blake,  in  a 
word,  is  a  Mystic. 

The  ideal  man  is  given  visions  of  ideals.  His 
intelligence  is  crystal-clear.  It  obtrudes  none  of 
its  substance  between  the  visions  and  the  rest  of 
the  man.  It  does  not  assert  its  existence  by  re- 
fracting the  light.  It  is  mere  transparency.  It  is 
self-denying. 

The  light  passes  through  the  crystal  mind,  fo- 
cussed.  A  spot  of  fierce  heat  falls  on  the  affec- 
tions. They  burst  aflame.  It  is  not  their  heat, 
but  the  fire  of  the  beam  that  ignites  them.  They 
are  fuel  to  it.  They  do  not  declare  themselves 
independent   (as  the  combustible  heart  does!)  nor 


»  1  Cor.  XV,  28. 


298  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

do  they  claim,  as  planets  do,  the  light  for  their 
own.    They  yield  themselves  entirely. 

The  flaming  affections,  kindled  by  the  transmit- 
ted ideal,  set  the  instincts  to  seething.  They  do 
not  like  polar  waters  persist  in  icy  self-identity. 
They  bubble,  they  steam.  The  cauldron  of  their 
sea-bed  and  topaz  sky  becomes  too  clear  for  the 
vaporized  waters.  They  are  furious  for  work. 
And  lo!  the  steam  issues — torrential  energy  de- 
velops in  the  mechanism  of  the  body  that  awaits 
it.  Not  like  the  self-assertive  flesh  of  the  corpse. 
It  is  pliant,  obedient.  Its  resistance  is  for  the 
sake  of  completer  obedience.  Inertia  becomes  mo- 
mentum. It  works.  And  lo!  the  ideal  finds  ex- 
pression in  glorious  looks,  gestures,  words,  deeds, 
and  heaven  sees  itself  mirrored  on  earth!  For 
the  looks,  gestures,  words,  deeds,  there  is  no  mo- 
tive that  belongs  to  the  man.  He  is  inspired. 
God  looks,  gesticulates,  speaks,  acts  through  him. 
He  is  not  "moral";  he  has  no  standard  of  good, 
no  choice  to  make.  The  choice  was  made  long  ago. 
He  has  no  righteousness,  for  he  takes  no  credit, 
nor  will  receive  any  glory  of  another;^  at  all 
events  he  is  *'not  good"  nor  will  he  let  himself  be 
called  good.2  He  is  "holy";  that  is  to  say  he  is 
God!  Not  he,  but  God  in  him,  who  worketh  in 
him  both  to  will  and  to  do  l^  To  God  he  ascribes 
the  praise  if  what  is  miscalled  his  ''Light''  shine; 
for  it  is  his,  as  a  lantern  might  arrogate  to  itself 

'John,  V  44. 

•Matt.,  xix.  17,  and  Mark,  x,  18. 

»  Phil.,  V.  13,  cf.  Eph.,  ill,  20,  et  aeq. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  299 

its  luminousness  emitted  by  the  flame;  and  men, 
who  see  him  '* glorify  God"  and  ''his  father,"  not 
him;  and  by  so  doing  they  rejoice  him  greatly, 
whose  blissful  business  it  is  to  set  forth  His  glory 
alone !'' 

Such  we  might  say  is  the  ideal  man.  Such  are 
not  we.  Why  not?  Accepting  a  ''fall,"  let  us 
give  a  strict  psychological  account  of  it.  Under- 
standing the  "fall,"  we  shall  see  our  way  clear  to 
a  "rise."  All  we  shall  have  to  do  will  be  to  re- 
verse the  process. 

Now,  if  as  an  evolutionist,  the  word  "fall" 
vexes  your  spirit,  say  instead  of  it  "failure  to 
realize  intended  perfection" — perfection  dreamed 
of  by  Nature,  and  towards  which  she  strives.  It 
is  anthropomorphic  language  I  will  admit,  but  if 
you  talk  of  "affinity"  and  "energy"  you  are 
surely  not  aware  of  how  much  more  of  that  sort  of 
language  you  could  consistently  endure  if  you 
tried!  The  plan  and  the  building  are  very  dis- 
crepant. What  a  "fall"  when  you  look,  for  in- 
stance, from  the  completed  architect's  cathedral 
to  the  foundations!  Yet  that  "fall"  is  the  be- 
ginning of  the  real  "rise" — of  the  realization,  vis- 
ible above  the  vast  city  some  day  that  wots  at 
present  only  of  her  topmost  towers  of  trade! 


*John,  xll,  28,  and  the  entire  seventeenth  chapter. 


300  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

II. 

Now  it  is  exactly  with  this  whole  matter  that 
William  Blake  deals.  Only  he  deals  with  it  not 
theologically,  but  poetically  and  pictorially.  All 
abstracts  are  concreted  by  symbolism.  Urizen 
[your  and  reason  (?)]  is  intelligence;  Luvah 
[love  and  ah!  (?)]  is  the  affectional  man;  Thar- 
mas^  is  the  sum  of  our  instincts  and  our  sense- 
nature;  Urthona  (earthen,  with  sonorous  vowel 
changes?)  is  the  living  body  or  rather  the  vital 
energy  of  that  body — that  which  constructs,  pre- 
serves, and  controls  it — the  physical  soul  if  one 
may  so  speak. 

Now  if  these  four  elements  of  man  were  func- 
tioning as  they  should,  according  to  the  previously 
indicated  ideal  method,  intellect  would  be  sover- 
eign in  man  as  man,  and  immediately  in  touch 
with  God,  the  poetic  genius  (as  Blake  calls  Him, 
meaning  to  suggest  One  who  makes  not,  but  causes 
self-making — does  not  give  ideas,  but  causes  men 
to  get  them,  i.  e.,  inspires^).  The  affections  would 
mediate  between  intelligence  and  the  instinctive 

'All  sorts  of  derivations  have  been  suggested  by  ingenious  stu- 
dents. Mythology,  biblical  nomenclature,  Rabbinical  lore,  Ossian, 
the  Kabbala,  Hebrew,  Greek  and  German  roots,  have  been  tortured 
to  yield  etymologies  (e.  g.)  ur  and  eisen,  original  iron,  is  suggested, 
for  Urizen.  Ur  and  Thon,  original  clay,  for  Urthonia.  Messrs.  Ellis 
and  Yeats  prefer  "luv,"  Hebrew  for  heart,  to  "love"  in  deriving 
Luvah.  As  for  Tharmas,  no  one  seems  to  have  made  a  probable 
guess.  To  derive  the  name  from  another  personage,  whose  concep- 
tion was  most  likely  subsequent,  seems  hardlv  prudent.  Enithar- 
mon  from  (z)enith  and  harmon(y)  is  intelligible;  but  Tharmas 
"docked"  from  Enitharmon  is  hardly  perspicuous,  nor  is  "Tham- 
muz"  a  convincing  etymology. 

'Cf.  "Marriage  of  Heaven  and  Hell,"  W.  B.  Teats'  Edition,  pp. 
171-172,  and  the  invaluable  (for  the  student)  "There  is  no  Natural 
Religion."     I,  pp.  229-230 — (the  first  seven  "Principles"). 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  301 

sensational  soul;  and  that  again  between  the  af- 
fections and  the  physical  energy.  These  relative 
offices  are  personified  and  named.  Not  the  office 
makes  the  man,  but  the  man  the  office.  Therefore 
the  true  functions  are  said  to  have  proceeded  or 
emanated  from  the  respective  elements,  faculties, 
or  souls  of  man;  and  are  symbolized  by  four  Ti- 
tanesses,  emanations  and  rightful  spouses  respect- 
ively of  the  four  lords  of  human  nature.  Thus 
Urizen  (a  state)-  is  wedded  to  Ahania  (a  space) ; 
Luvah  to  Vala;  Tharmas  to  Enion;  Urthona  to 
Enitharmon.  Here  we  have,  so  far,  eight  person- 
ages for  a  symbolical  myth.  In  terms  of  them 
we  can  state  much  abstruse  psychological  doc- 
trine, and  never  for  one  minute  become  un- 
poetical  or  unpicturesque.  It  remains  to  say 
that  when  the  man  is  distraught,  the  faculties,  or 
souls,  and  their  normal  functions  are  separated, 
miscouplcd,  and  assume  unnatural  aspects.  If  a 
faculty  or  soul  separates  from  its  emanation  or 
function,  they  become  mutually  destructive;  the 
faculty  cannot  do  other  work  properly,  the  func- 
tion cannot  be  performed  properly  by  another  fac- 
ulty. Adulterous  discontent  turns  into  conjugal 
hatred.  Urizen,  for  instance,  becomes  a  ''spec- 
tre" and  longs  for  the  destruction  of  Ahania,  who 
is  herself  no  longer  an  "emanation"  but  a  mere 
dismal  "shadow" — empty;  while  only  in  their  re- 
union can  either  find  satisfaction.    If  the  intellect 


'Messrs.  Ellis  and  Yoats'  terminology  developing  a  hint  of 
Blake's :  the  "state,"  standing  for  the  "soul"  ;  the  "space,"  for  Its 
"function"  or  relative  position,  so  to  speak,  in  the  normal  man 
(the  divine  man). 


302  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

busies  itself  exclusively  with  things  of  sense  de- 
nying the  spiritual,  the  spiritual  aspiration  of  the 
man  must  perish,  or  be  improperly  satisfied  with 
emotional  nostrums. 

Luvah,  the  affections,  when  the  intellect,  Urizen, 
refuses  to  mediate  divine  ideals  and  strives  to 
reduce  man  to  a  mechanical  system — i.  e.,  to  rule 
affections  by  prohibitions,  instincts  by  their  de- 
nial, physical  energies  by  ascetic  practice — Lu- 
vah becomes  rebellious,  terrible,  maniacal.  His 
new  unnatural  aspect,  due  to  Urizen 's  unnatural 
functioning,  constitutes  another  myth-personage: 
Ore  (=rock,  or=cor).  He  is  what  the  affections 
become  under  carnal  impulsion  and  rational  re- 
pression. Urthona  similarly  becomes  Los  (:=sol, 
or  sun)  when  viewed  as  causing  the  destruction 
of  systems  of  thought  and  conduct  illegitimately 
foisted  on  man  by  the  materialized  intellect.  The 
vital  energies  constantly  break  through,  and  hence 
acquire  a  protestant,  prophetic  character. 

Remembering  further  that  none  of  the  faculties 
or  souls  could  possibly  act  on  the  others,  and  co- 
operate with  them,  unless  it  had  affinities  with  all, 
every  lawful  couple  (soul  and  emanation)  have 
four  sons  (elements)  with  their  four  daughters 
(emanations  or  functions  of  these  sons  or  ele- 
ments). This  subdivision  or  filiation  might  be 
carried  on  indefinitely.  Again  any  number  of 
these  ''sons  and  daughters"  may  be  at  any  mo- 
ment regarded,  from  some  particular  point  of 
view,  collectively,  and  the  synthesis  personified, 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  303 

and  the  person  newly  named.  Of  such  a  nature 
are  Urizen's  daughters  Ona,  Elith  and  Uvith,  ac- 
cording to  Messrs.  Ellis  and  Yeats.  Mnetha,  the 
ancient  mother,  is  such  a  collective  personage  for 
all  the  four  souls  and  their  emanations;  liar 
(Adam)  for  Urizen  and  Ahania,  Luvah  and  Vain; 
Heva  (Eve)  for  Tharmas  and  Enion,  Urthona  and 
Enitharmon.  But  into  the  intricacies  of  what 
Messrs.  Ellis  and  Yeats,  after  the  most  patient  in- 
vestigation and  sjTnpathetic  reconstruction,  be- 
lieve to  be  the  genealogical  tree  of  Blake's  myth- 
deities,  we  cannot  now  penetrate.  Let  the  inter- 
ested reader  purchase  or  borrow  their  voluminous 
work  and  study  the  matter  out  for  himself. 

Now,  of  course,  Blake's  personages  must  inhabit 
a  world  of  some  sort.  On  no  little  earth  of  canal 
and  cabbage-field,  commercial  city  and  seaside  re- 
sort, do  they  live,  and  move,  and  have  their  be- 
ing. Still,  it  is  an  earth  much  like  ours.  The 
continents  are  there  at  all  events.  But  all  is 
charged  with  meaning.  The  sunrise  shall  speak 
of  Luvah ;  and  let  what  happen  to  Luvah  (or  Ore) 
and  Vala,  the  East  stands  fast  as  the  region  of 
their  rightful  habitation.  The  sun  at  noon,  the 
zenith,  the  south,  towards  which  the  summer  sun 
inclines,  are  Urizen's  in  his  primal  power.  If  the 
conscious  life  begins  with  the  affections,  is  at 
full  in  the  inspired  intellect,  it  is  last  traceable  in 
our  instincts  and  sensations.  There  we  enter 
through  a  region  of  twilight  the  hemisphere  of  the 
unconscious  dark.    So  in  the  sunset  and  the  "West 


304  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

is  the  home  of  Tharmas,  from  England,  as  point 
of  view,  the  Oceanic  world;  while  Urthona  pos- 
sesses midnight,  the  nadir  when  the  sun  is  in  the 
zenith,  the  north  towards  which  the  snn,  when 
impotent  in  winter-time,  inclines.  It  is  quite  no- 
ticeable that  the  life  of  inspiration,  so  like,  be- 
cause of  its  trance-like  remoteness  from  the  world 
of  sense  and  sentiment,  is  never  viewed  by  Blake 
(as  so  often  in  mystical  systems),  as  a  ''forget- 
ting," a  sleep,  an  unconsciousness,  or  a  death. 
Only  positive  terms  does  Blake  employ.  To  an 
idealist  like  him,  as  to  Shelley  (on  whom  his  man- 
tle fell  from  the  fire-chariot,  all  unconscious 
though  Shelley  was  of  the  spiritual  inheritance), 
unconsciousness  were  annihilation ;  and  it  is  safer 
far  to  speak  of  an  intenser,  transcendent  con- 
sciousness, at  the  risk  of  saying  what  is  meaning- 
less to  one's  audience,  than,  from  excessive  zeal 
for  the  supersedence  of  present  conditions  of 
soul-life  by  those  compared  with  which  they  are 
as  a  death,  to  indulge  in  expressions  so  ambiguous 
as  to  suggest  a  Nirvana  of  non-existence  as  the 
goal  of  evolution. 

We  have  suggested  before,  in  passing,  that  the 
sun,  fire  (light  and  heat)  and  the  sense  of  color; 
air,  winds  and  clouds,  and  odors ;  seas,  lakes,  riv- 
ers, wells,  and  the  senses  of  touch  and  taste;  the 
solid  earth  and  the  sense  of  hearing,  are  also  re- 
spectively assigned  as  symbolic  provinces  to 
Urizen,  Luvah,  Tharmas,  and  Urthona  as  their 
birthright. 

Now,  what  could  not  find  expression?    Yegeta- 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  305 

tion,  of  course,  belongs  to  Tharmas.  Tlie  animals 
are  Urtbona's;  particularly  tbose  tbat  bauut  caves 
and  prowl  at  nigbt,  tbat  burrow  under  ground 
and  dread  tlie  day.  Tbe  animals  tbat  love  green 
meadows  and  full  sunsbine  are  on  tbe  limits,  so 
to  say,  of  Urtbona's  animal  kingdom  towards 
Tbarmas'  realm.  But  Tbarmas,  lord  of  waters, 
bas  tbe  fisbes  and  tbe  great  mammals  of  tbe  deep 
on  bis  side  of  tbe  common  frontier.  Luvali  bas 
tbe  birds  of  tbe  air.  Tbose  like  tbe  eagle  tbat 
eyes  tbe  blazing  sun,  tbe  lark  tbat  carols  bis 
praises  liigb  in  rarefied  air,  are  tbe  affections  tbat 
upsoar  and  become  instinct  witli  celestial  intelli- 
gence ;  tbe  nigbtingale  stands  for  tbe  essential  af- 
fections, wbicb  voice  tbemselves  in  ecstatic  song; 
tbe  dove  tbat  coos  monotonously  sweet  in  wood- 
land dense  suggests  tbe  affections  so  belj^less,  so 
foolisb,  so  tender,  wbicb  take  refuge  in  instinct; 
tbe  tame  fowls  of  tbe  barnyard  are  affections  tbat 
bave  been  perversely  taugbt  to  abandon  tbe  air, 
tbeir  natural  element,  to  live  on  refuse  and  offal, 
smacking  of  tbe  mere  bodily  energy;  affections 
tbat  bave  degenerated  into  lusts,  nor  bave  even 
tbe  glory  of  lust,  wbicb,  as  in  lion  and  tiger,  is 
defiance  of  limitation,  migbty  assertion  of  sav- 
age self-dependence.  As  for  tbe  bat,  a  tbing  of 
eartb,  yet  claiming  to  fly,  it  miglit  serve  to  ren- 
der gbastly  clear  tbe  lust  of  mere  body  tbat  pro- 
tends to  be  an  affection,  but  flits  about  only  in  tbe 
dusk,  wbon  tbe  sun  of  conscious  intelligence  bas 
forsaken  tbe  east,  tbe  zenitb,  toward  tbe  soutb, 


306  WILLIAM  BLAKS' 

and  is  speeding  into  the  earth's  shadow,  the  mid- 
night at  the  nadir,  the  frore  north. 

One  need  only  add  that  the  colors  have  also  been 
divided  by  Blake  among  his  myth-children.  Green 
and  pink  are  the  colors  of  life ;  respectively  vege- 
table life,  instincts;  and  human  life,  imaginative 
and  spiritually  minded.  Eed  and  yellow,  the  col- 
ors of  fire  and  of  warm  sunshine,  seem  to  be  re- 
spectively Ore's  and  Luvah's,  passions  and  loves. 
Blue,  nearest  to  darkness  of  all  colors,  that  of  the 
sky,  the  illusion  that  seems  to  shut  us  in  as  deni- 
zens of  a  pitiful  world,^  veiling  the  face  of  the 
universe  and  its  God,  belongs  to  Urthona.  White 
and  black,  which  are  not  colors  at  all,  are  signifi- 
cant of  abnormal  states  of  the  soul;  respectively 
the  intellect  that  admits  no  place  to  love,  that  lives 
in  the  arctic  snows,  at  war  with  Luvah ;  and  the  in- 
tellect that  loses  its  intuitive  light  in  the  material- 
ism of  the  sense-life,  Urizen  at  war  with  Urthona. 
The  color  of  Urizen  redeemed  is  the  golden  blaze 
of  the  sun,  both  vivid  light  and  heat. 

What  could  not  even  you  and  I  write  in  terms 
of  such  a  magnificent  earth-swallowing  hiero- 
glyphic alphabet  ?  What  a  superb  freedom  of  ut- 
terance? What  hues  of  meaning — for  which  no 
words  do,  or  ever  will  exist — cannot  be  subtly 
insinuated,  so  that  the  myth  should  defy  a  ren- 
dering altogether  into  the  rigidly  abstract,  unpo- 
etic,  unpictorial  dialect  of  psychology  and  meta- 
physic  I 

iHence  his  saying  "the  sky  is  Satan,"  and  that  he  had  "touched 
the  sky  with  his  stick  at  the  end  of  a  lane," 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  307 


III. 


"What  are  the  chief  doctrines  of  Blake?  They 
are  readily  inferred.  But  were  it  not  better  in  an 
article  meant  to  stimulate  curiosity  rather  than 
to  satisfy,  if  we  said  little  of  a  definite  sort  about 
Blake's  message?  Let  us  give,  however,  one  obvi- 
ous caution  to  the  student-reader.  Do  not  expect 
Blake,  or  anyone,  to  utter  his  whole  message  at 
once  or  to  keep  it  before  you  entire  at  any  mo- 
ment. One  thing  at  a  time,  said  with  all  his 
might;  another  on  another  occasion  with  equal 
stress  of  enthusiasm.  Each  in  its  turn  empha- 
sized by  isolation.  So  all  he  says  must  go  to- 
gether. You  will  often  be  perplexed  by  paradox. 
It  is  that  the  truth  dwells  unutterable,  save  by  s^Tn- 
bol,  between  half-truths.  Every  thinker,  in  the 
dearth  of  words,  has  to  give  peculiar  meanings  to 
familiar  phrases.^  Only  by  thinking  his  thought, 
do  we  come  to  understand  his  terminology. 
Blake's  is  at  all  events  calculated  to  stir  the 
imagination,  even  if  its  precise  intelligible  value 
has  not  been  revealed  to  you.  It  never  im- 
presses you  as  a  mere  cryptic  alphabet,  because 
it  is  always  in  some  manner  suggestive,  making  a 
primary  appeal  to  the  inner  senses.  There  is  his 
advantage  over  other  prophets,  unpoetic  and  un- 
pictorial.  Only,  it  were  surely  a  pity  to  rest  con- 
tent with  this  superficial  sense.     For  the  fullest 

>rf.  James  Thompson,  quoted  by  W.   M.  Roesettl,   in  his  Memoir 
of  Blake,  pp.  cxviii-cxix. 


308  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

possible  enjoyment  of  Blake  one  must  at  least 
imaginatively  (for  the  nonce)  accej^t  his  philos- 
ophy. 

But  why  is  it  so  difficult  to  ascertain  Blake's 
meaning?  Why  such  opposite  interpretations? 
Because,  as  in  the  case,  for  instance,  of  Christian 
theology,  he  was  wont  to  assume  attitudes  in  ap- 
pearance mutually  exclusive.  ''It  must  be  re- 
membered," says  Mr.  Swinburne,  "that  Blake 
uses  the  current  terms  of  religion,  now  as  types 
of  his  own  peculiar  faith,  and  now  in  the  sense  of 
ordinary  preachers:  impugning  therefore  at  one 
time  what  at  another  he  will  seem  to  vindicate."^ 
But  it  were  fair  also  to  add  that  Blake  was  firmly 
convinced  that  "his  own  peculiar  faith"  ivas  the 
real  significance  of  what  the  "ordinary  preach- 
ers" grossly  misunderstood.  Therefore  he  felt 
justified  in  calling  himself  a  Christian,  and  justi- 
fied in  being  bitterly  hostile  to  the  current  theol- 
ogy. Having  to  reckon  with  the  usual  corruptions 
(as  he  deemed  them)  of  doctrines  he  as  surely 
deemed  divine,  Blake  felt  bound  to  uphold  and 
tear  down;  and  it  was  not  always  possible,  not 
really  necessary,  to  state  definitely  every  time  in 
which  sense  he  was  using  a  theological  phrase. 
Sometimes  an  epithet  would  make  his  sense  clear. 
In  "creeping  Jesus,"  as  Mr.  Swinburne  long  ago 
pointed  out,  we  see  of  course,  the  sort  of  "Jesus" 
men  have  tried  to  exalt.    Blake  abhors  him.    The 


^Swinburne,  loc.  cit.,  p.  212.  E.  g.,  Denier  of  the  vicarious  atone- 
ment, he  yet  says  :  "The  death  of  Jesus  set  me  free,"  "To  Tirzah." 
W.  B.  Yeats'  edition,  p.  84. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  309 

Jesus  that  ''takes  after  liis  mother,  the  law" — 
the  hybrid  conception  of  Christianity — a  religion 
that  declares  the  law  a  curse,  yet  would  judge  its 
adherents  by  it,  rather  than  by  holy  enthusiasm 
and  inspiration,  the  test  of  apostolic  days^ — he 
feels  duty-bound  to  oppose  with  might  and  main. 

"The  vision  of  Christ  that  thou  dost  see 
Is  my  vision's  greatest  enemy." 

His  Christ  is  the  great  vindicator  of  a  natural 
life,  who  preaches  to  men  to  be  as  lily,  as  sparrow, 
as  little  child,  as  fruitful  tree.  Faith  in  the  ideal, 
and  hope  of  manifesting  it  in  one's  final  perfec- 
tion— not  self-schooling  by  a  set  of  laws ;  forgive- 
ness of  sins — not  the  endless  legal  or  illegal  ven- 
detta, which  were  futile;  spontaneous  virtue — not 
artificial  righteouness ;  a  life  from  within  out- 
ward, seeing  that  the  beginnings  be  right — not 
from  without  inward;  the  setting  of  desire  on 
things  above — not  the  dangerous  starving  and  im- 
possible killing  of  desire;  indifference  to  the  let- 
ter, when  sure  of  the  spirit,  to  the  deed,  when  sure 
of  the  will ;  the  essential  unity  of  man  and  God- 
not  their  everlasting  antithesis;  the  radical  good- 
ness therefore  (not  depravity)  of  human  nature, 
needing  only  to  draw  its  sap  from  its  true  root 
to  become  lovely  in  appearance;  as  teacher  and 
demonstrator  of  such  doctrine,  as  preacher  of  the 
sermon  on  the  IMount,  and  utterer  of  the  great 
prayer  of  atonement  in  the  garden  of  Gethsemane, 


'Cf.  e.  g.,  1  Ep.  St.  John.   Hi,   24.  and  Iv,  13. 


310  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

tlie  Christ  was  to  him  the  Saviour,  and  in  a  pecu- 
liar sense  ''the  very  God." 

"If  thou  humblest  thyself  thou  humblest  Me. 
Thou  also  dwellest  in  eternity. 
Thou  art  a  man.     God  is  no  more. 
Thine  own  humanity  learn  to  adore; 
For  that  is  My  spirit  of  life." 

So  said  the  Father  to  the  would-be  humble  Jesus ; 
and  Blake  adds: 

"I  was  standing  by  when  Jesus  died. 

What  they  called  humility,  I  called  pride." 

For  he  saw  the  sublime  arrogance  of  that  humility 
of  the  Christ  (the  humility  according  to  Blake, 
that  Christ  would  have  his  disciples  learn  of  him, 
being  humble  as  he  was  meek  and  lowly)  which, 
professing  to  be  nothing,  professes  God  Himself 
to  be  all  of  him.  Blake  hated  that  false  humility 
which  is  meant  (consciously  or  not)  only  to  bid 
God  and  man  heap  on  us  praises  which  we  eagerly 
want,  and  pretend  not  to  claim  only  in  order  to  ob- 
tain more  plentifully  from  less  zealous  hands  '.^ 

How  wonderfully  Blake  did  preach !  In  an  ar- 
ticle, however,  like  this,  without  illustrations,  or 
space  for  plentiful  quotation,  his  clearest  teach- 
ing can  hardly  be  indicated. 

Vast  stalks  of  wheat  droop  pitifully,  heavy  for 
very  fullness  of  ear,  in  a  graceful  S-like  curve; 
two  naked  women,  their  backs  turned  to  us,  with 
a  fury  of  motion,  daughters  of  whirlwind,  within 
the  loop  of  the  vast  stalks,  leaping  on  air,  blow 
out  of  spiral  trumpets  great  blasts  of  foul  blight, 

'Cf.  vrhltman's  doctrine  of  "divine  pride"  necessary  to  democ- 
racy, and  to  tlie  higliest  religion. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  311 

which  settle  about  tlie  pendant  ears  and  descend 
in  a  liberal  fall,  hesitant,  clinging,  defiling,  like 
flakes  of  pitchy  snow. 

Can  you  not  understand  ?  The  fruit-yielding  in- 
stincts of  humanity,  no  more  erect,  snaky  in  curve 
because  of  the  hurricane  of  ill-pent  passion,  ren- 
dered foul  and  barren  by  imputations  of  their  in- 
herent sinfulness,  that  cling  to  ear  and  stalk  till 
both  rot  into  the  ground ! 

An  old  man — hoary  hair  driven  flame-like  over 
his  forehead,  garments  fluttering  forward,  knees 
barely  able  to  resist  the  fury  of  the  wind  behind — 
who  peers  into  the  gloom  of  a  vault  through  a 
door  ajar,  fain  to  take  refuge  from  the  storm- 
black  sky,  lit  only  now  by  lurid  cloud-edges ;  yet 
afraid  of  the  unexplored  mystery,  and  leaning 
still,  as  best  he  can,  on  some  old  staff  of  tradition. 
But  above,  unseen  of  him,  out  of  the  vault,  burst- 
ing the  mason's  work,  branches  a  stout  tree,  with 
all  its  suggestions  of  perpetual  self-renewal,  birds 
that  build  nests  of  love,  and  sing  the  glories  of  the 
risen  sun! 

How  clear  again.  Life  out  of  death — nay  death, 
only  life;  nor  in  a  sense  other — for  is  not  the 
tree,  that  has  its  roots  in  the  grave,  like  any  tree? 
And  further,  the  reason,  a  dotard  (because  he  has 
not  sought  the  beatific  vision  that  constitutes  life 
eternal),  may  enter  the  tomb  of  materialism,  but 
be  sure  the  instincts  will  spring  the  arch  and  get 
into  the  perfect  day. 

Another   illumined   page    shadows   vividly  the 


312  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

gruesome  condition,  at  present,  of  the  soul. 
Around  tlie  engraved  text,  calm  below,  wind- 
roughened  above,  is  sea.  Below  lies  outstretched 
the  pitiful  corpse  of  a  youth,  and  snakes  wind 
about  the  abandoned  limbs,  and  voracious  hyenas 
of  the  deep  grin  at  it  ready  to  devour.  Above,  on 
a  rock  of  the  beaten  shore,  lies  a  maiden;  head 
and  hair  and  arms  hanging  lifeless  backward ;  one 
shining  leg  still  kissed  by  the  salt  crests;  her 
breasts  lifted  shamelessly,  poor  corpse,  appealing 
to  Heaven  for  pity,  while  an  eagle,  with  vast 
sweep  of  wings  to  prevent  Heaven's  eyes  filling 
with  tears  at  the  sight,  rends  greedily  with  terri- 
ble beak  her  loins. 

How  suggestive !  The  intellect,  lost  in  the  phys- 
ical, devoured  by  lusts  that  wriggle  and  writhe  on 
their  livid  bellies,  as  they  emerge  from  ooze  and 
slime;  and  by  instincts,  ideally  intended  to  obey 
it,  but  now  masters  of  it,  and  its  mortal  foes.  The 
affections,  also  dead,  resting  on  the  vital-energy 
(where  the  instincts,  agitated  by  their  own  unruly 
elements,  war  with  them)  torn  by  the  sublim- 
est  of  all,  the  eagle-affection  for  the  divine,  that 
should  be  soaring  aloft  in  the  heaven  of  divine 
imagination.  But  the  intellect  is  not  there,  Jove- 
like, to  receive  the  bird,  and  therefore  it  descends 
to  lacerate  and  glut  itself  on  the  dead  affections 
themselves.  Prostituted  intellect  and  religious 
fanaticism  battening  on  the  heart  I  What  a  ter- 
rible two-fold  doom! 

Father  and  daughter  embracing — white  flowing 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  3l3 

locks  that  mingle  with  golden — both,  as  it  were, 
released  from  a  prison,  and  being  upcaught  to 
heaven  in  a  luminous  cloud,  enraptured  by  their 
reunion  of  perfect  love.  That  is  it.  Let  not  head 
find  fault  with  heart,  nor  heart  with  head.  Let 
them  embrace.  Let  each  resume  its  function.  All 
will  be  then  forgotten ;  all  will  be  well  with  both. 

A  ram  asleep;  two  naked  children,  one  lying 
beside  it,  her  face  hid  in  the  short  grass;  the 
other  leaning  over  the  ram,  his  cheek  making  a 
pillow  for  noon-sleep  of  its  white  fleece,  shadowed 
only  by  his  golden  hair ;  over  them  droops  a  tree 
as  a  weeping  willow  of  the  churchyard,  not  for 
shadow  but  for  grace;  in  its  branches,  birds. 

If  ever  a  symbol  of  sorrow,  the  tree  is  that  no 
more.  It  is  the  sweet  melancholy  of  perfect 
drowsihead;  and  on  the  branches  sit  birds  sing- 
ing, to  show  that  what  instinctive  sadness  the 
pure  have,  is  only  a  nest-home  and  song-home  for 
the  joys  of  love  and  aspiration.  Reborn  by  their 
mutual  forgiveness  it  is  as  if  old  father  and 
daughter  had  become  little  children  once  more. 
For  them,  body  and  sense  are  pure.  In  their  un- 
consciousness of  self,  which  is  sleep,  they  confi- 
dently lay  their  heads  on  dewy  grass  and  woolly 
ram — and  all  the  while  in  their  dreams  the  song 
of  their  purified  being  thrills  and  throbs  under  the 
inflow  of  the  divine  light  and  heat  that  comes  to 
them  in  their  ''wise  passiveness."  Intellect  and 
affections  do  not  have  to  toil  and  spin.    They  have 


314  WILLIAM  DLAKE 

no  anxieties.     They  are — that  is  enough.     God  is. 
That  is  their  bliss. 

Let  us  take  one  more  illustrated  page. 

Below,  the  dragon-snake  twists  along  at  furious 
rate;  his  great  wise  head  with  long  heedful  ears 
turned  rearward,  his  eyes  looking  back  to  see  if 
his  precious  freight  be  safe.  Above,  a  bank  of 
peerless  cloud  floats,  with  the  new  moon  and  one 
star.  Eiding  the  dragon-snake  are  a  maiden  and 
two  children.  High  above,  in  the  region  over  the 
clouds,  flies  a  swan  with  straining  neck  and  furi- 
ous sweep  of  pinion,  bestridden  by  a  youth  who 
— between  the  wings,  under  his  hair,  flying  in  the 
wind,  that  seem  to  beckon  as  it  were  to  all  that 
is  behind  to  follow — looks  back  into  the  traversed 
spaces. 

What  should  this  signify,  if  not  the  intellect  on 
the  wings  of  inspiration;  affections,  instinct, 
sense,  and  bodily  energy,  creeping  along  in  the 
actual  world;  both,  however,  bent  for  the  same 
goal  if  by  different  ways  and  means;  the  har- 
monious operation  of  the  king  and  the  kingdom 
of  man  towards  the  hastening  of  the  "one  divine 
event?" 

How  do  I  know  this  is  what  these  illumined 
pages  actually  signify?  It  is  what  they  signify 
to  me.  Other  meanings  besides  they  doubtless 
have.  These  are  at  all  events  such  meanings  as 
they  have  for  one  who  has  come  to  know  the  main 
tenets  of  Blake.  For  the  deeper  student  they  will 
have  more.    Blake  himself  had  to  study  his  work 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  315 

as  we,  and  often  no  doubt  interpreted  it  with  dif- 
ficulty. We  have  this  on  his  own  admission.  He 
trusted  in  the  law  of  correspondence;  ''three- 
fold vision"  was  usual,  "fourfold"  not  uncom- 
mon. 

For  double  the  vision  my  eyes  do  see, 
And  a  double  vision  is  always  with  me. 
(With  my  inward  eye,  'tis  an  old  man  grey; 
With  my  outward  a  thistle  across  the  way.) 

•  ■  •  •  •  •  • 

Now  I  a  four-fold  vision  see, 
And  a  four-fold  vision  is  given  to  me, 
'Tis  four-fold  in  my  supreme  delight, 
And  three-fold  in  soft  Beulah's  night, 
And   two-fold  always.     May  God  us  keep 
From  single  vision,  and  Newton's  sleep!' 

A  threefold  sense  to  his  symbols  there  usually  is 
— one  on  the  plane  of  human  social  intercourse, 
one  on  the  plane  of  psychology,  one  on  the  uni- 
versal, because  as  man  so  the  Kosmos.  On  the 
divine  plane,  no  doubt,  at  times  there  are  senses 
of  his  myths,  glimpsed  in  utmost  glory  of  his  **  su- 
preme delight"  which  eluded  even  Blake  him- 
self. That  is  the  penalty  we  pay  for  inspiration. 
"VYe  build  better  than  we  knoiv.  Let  us  also  trust 
the  law  of  correspondence  (law,  or  theory,  or 
working  hypothesis,  or  poetic  fancy — be  it  what 
you  please  to  call  it!)  which  is  simply  the 
thought  of  order  and  symmetry  of  structure  in 
the  whole.  All  that  is,  has  organic  unity;  analogies 
are  therefore  to  be  expected;  not  similarities  of 
beings,  and  facts,  but  of  the  relations  of  these. 
If  all  this  be  not  so  in  ''reality"  (as  we  say),  it 
is  at  all  events  a  sublime  poetic  dream;  and  as 

i"L03,  the  Terrible,"  pp.  136-138,  W.  B.  Teats'  edition. 


316  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

we  would  it  were  indeed  realized  in  actuality  (who 
could  help  but  ''wish  it  true!")  let  us  give  Blake 
love  and  honor,  then,  for  having  realized  it  in 
art. 

IV. 

Having  hinted  at  his  message  through  hazarded 
interpretations  of  six  pages  of  his  prophetic 
books,  let  us  close  this  paper  with  an  attempt  at 
interpreting  one  of  the  most  accessible  but  diffi- 
cult poems  of  Blake.  I  shall  do  this  merely  with 
the  intention  of  furnishing  an  example  of  the 
method  of  procedure,  not  pretending  to  give  an 
instance  of  its  indisputable  success. 

The  "Songs  of  Experience"  begin  with  some 
manifestlv  difficult  stanzas.  I  shall  furnish  the 
reader  with  glosses  which  he  is  earnestly  requested 
to  treat  as  no  part  of  the  authoritative  text !  Never 
make  Moses  responsible  for  the  calculations  of  an 
Usher,  orthodox  arch-bishop  though  he  be,  and 
Irish  ecclesiastic  to  boot ! 

Hear  the  voice  of  the  Bard, 

Who  present,  past,  and  future,  sees; 

Whose  ears  have  heard 

The  Holy  Word 

That  walked  among  the  ancient  trees; 

Calling   the   lapsed   soul. 

And  weeping  in  the  evening  dew; 

That  might  control  the  starry  pole, 

And  fallen,  fallen  light  renew! 

The  Bard  (=inspired  poet)  addresses  the  earth; 
not  the  planet,  but  collective  liumanity  symbolized 
by  the  planet.    The  bard  has  the  jntellsct  open: 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  317 

he  sees  not  only  the  present  but  the  joast,  not  only 
the  past  but  the  future;  for  he  understands  the 
cyclic  law  of  development,  and  apprehends  every 
condition  and  event  in  the  light  of  cause  and  con- 
sequence; his  ears  (=sense  signifying  the  life  en- 
ergy of  the  bodily  man)  have  received  the  mes- 
sage of  that  Divine  One  that  is  wont  to  pervade 
(in  the  days  of  human  innocency)  the  instincts 
and  even  the  sensual  life  of  man;  and  who  calls 
now  through  the  bard  to  the  '^ lapsed  soul,"  which 
might,  if  it  chose,  be  master  of  the  flesh  (=starry 
pole — the  nadir)  and  rejoice  anew  in  the  old  light 
of  inspired  intellect.  Tlie  Bard  cries  his  message, 
infected  instinctively  (=the  dew)  with  grief 
(=weeping)  because  in  sympathy  he  realizes  as 
his  own  the  woeful  obscuration  of  the  intellect 
(=evening)  in  the  ''lapsed  soul,"  of  whom  he 
desires  to  speak  to  mankind  (=the  Earth). 

O  Earth,  O  Earth,  return! 

Arise  from  out  the  dewy  grass! 

Night  is  worn, 

And  the  morn 

Eises  from  the  slumberous  mass. 

Turn  away  no  more; 

"Why  wilt  thou  turn  awayf 

The   starry  floor, 

The  watery  shore, 

Is  given  thee  till  the  break  of  day! 

The  dominion  of  the  flesh  (=night)  is  all  but  over; 
from  the  carnal  man,  dormant  in  instincts  (=dewy 
grass),  the  intellect  (=the  sun)  is  about  to  burst 
forth  to  sovereign  inspiration  (=the  zenith) 
through  the  free  affections  (=East)  ;^  till  when 

'N.  B.  the  mom.  .the  sun,  rising  In  the  east,  and  mounting  toward 
the  zenith. 


318  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

thou  art  given,  0  mankind,  thy  wholesome  bodily 
energies  (^the  starry  floor,  i.  e.,  the  sky  that  is 
floor  of  the  spiritual  temple)  and  thy  yet  pure 
instincts  where  they  border  on,  and  batter  against 
the  flesh,  perpetually  eroding  it  (=the  watery 
shore)  as  trustworthy,  requiring  no  reform;  and 
indicating  by  that  which  they  need  to  complement 
them,  what  the  affections  and  intellect  should  be, 
and  shall  become  when  the  hour  of  thy  illumina- 
tion has  struck  (=the  break  of  day). 

Let  the  reader  proceed  to  try  the  general  indi- 
cations given  in  this  paper  (and  largely  borrowed 
from  Messrs.  Ellis  and  Yeats,  who  should  not, 
however,  be  held  responsible  for  any  degree  of 
wilful  or  inevitable  misapprehension  of  their 
meaning  by  the  present  writer)  upon  such  easy 
poems  as  the  ''Little  Black  Boy,"  or  the  ''Little 
Girl  Lost  and  the  Little  Girl  Found";  then  upon 
the  longer  and  more  perplexing  pieces  contained 
in  the  complete  edition;  then  let  him  attempt 
"Thel,"  and  the  Prophetic  books. 

Now,  in  conclusion,  let  me  say  that  the  best 
theory  of  Blake's  system  of  symbology  is  that 
which  can  deal  most  successfully  without  violence, 
with  the  greatest  number  of  difficulties.  If  it  be 
true,  as  Dr.  Garnett  would  have  us  think,  that 
Messrs.  Ellis  and  Yeats'  labors  have  been  all  but 
in  vain,*  we  can  only  say:  "So  much  the  worse 
for  Blake!"    For  my  part  I  find  Dr.  Garnett 's 

'A  pity  that  Mr.  Story  (Essay,  p.  158,)  who  can  himself  so  little 
Interpret  as  a  whole  Blalte's  writings,  should  feci  obliged  to  reject 
Messrs.   Ellis  and  Yeats'  expository  methods ! 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  31 'J 

own  account  unsatisfactory  in  the  extreme.  He 
tliinks  Blake  did  not  talk  ''aimless  nonsense  ex- 
actly" (something  very  near  it,  though,  the  Doc- 
tor seems  to  imply) ;  for  all  there  is  to  be  con- 
scious of  in  his  works  is  ''a  general  drift  of 
thought  in  some  particular  direction  which  seems 
to  us  to  offer  a  general  affinity  to  the  thought  of 
the  Gnostics."  Since,  however,  the  doctrine  of 
the  Gnostics  (as  to  its  intention)  is  all  but  un- 
known; read  of  mainly  in  the  distortions  of  hos- 
tile refutations;  we  may  judge  of  the  helpful  lu- 
cidity of  Dr.  Garnett's  suggestion!  His  criticism 
of  Messrs.  Ellis  and  Yeats'  interpretation  of  Thel 
is  to  say  the  very  least  captious. 

''In  understanding  Blake's  myth,  the  first  thing 
is  to  read  him  through.  "^  The  second  qualifica- 
tion is  to  be  thoroughly  in  sympathy  with  Blake's 
general  view — to  have  mastered  by  sympathetic 
study  the  literature  that  influenced  him.  Few  of 
Blake's  critics  have  really  shown  that  they  had 
these  two  prerequisites  for  successful  indGi:)endent 
interpretation.  While  I  myself  cannot  honestly 
claim  either  (for  surely  "reading  him  through" 
means  something  like  "thorough  reading" — and 
"thorough"  is  an  exacting  word)  I  shall  hold  on 
to  the  skirts  of  the  editors  who  have  so  valiantly 
vindicated  Blake  and  given  us,  from  inchoate 
manuscripts,  that  incomparable  Book  of  Vala 
("which  they  fondly  deem  to  be  now  in  proper 
order")' — could  any  one  have  read  it  and  not 

»B.  and  T.  Works  of  Blake.     Vol.  I,   p.  336. 
>Wm.  Blake,  by  Dr.  R.  G.,  p.  30. 


320  WILLIAM  BLAKE 

fondly  hoped  the  editor's  fond  deeming  to  he 
just? — of  which  let  the  one  who  would  approach 
the  Prophetic  Books  try  the  ninth  ''night"  en- 
titled the  ''Last  Judgment,"  and  if  it  does  not 
raise  in  him  a  great  tide  of  enthusiasm  (solar  or 
lunar,  who  cares?)  he  can  safely  conclude,  I  fancy, 
that  for  him  the  poetry  of  mysticism — poetry  that 
is  rhythmic,  poetic  and  pictorial,  and  yet  sur- 
charged with  spiritual  energy — has  no  attractions. 

With  a  quotation  from  it  let  us  end  our  lucubra- 
tions, preparatory  we  trust,  to  solid  studies. 

"If  gods  combine  against  Man,  setting  their  dominion  above 
The  Human  Form  Divine,*  thrown  down  from  their  high  sta- 
tion, 
In  the  eternal  heavens  of  Human  Imagination,  buried  beneath 
In  dark  oblivion,  with  incessant  pangs,  ages  on  ages, 
In  enmity  and  war  first  weakened,  then  in  stern  repentance, 
They    must   renew    their   brightness,    and   their    disorganized 

functions 
Again  reorganize  till  they  resume  the  image  of  the  human. 
Co-operating  in  the  bliss  of  many  obeying  his  will, 
Servants  to  the  infinite  and  eternal   of  the  Human  Form." 

Such  does  Blake  declare,  he,  the  prophet  of  the 
"Poetic  Genius,"  to  be  the  final  judgment  on  all 
religious  ideals,  dogmas,  gods.  If  they  proceed 
to  be  enforced  for  their  own  sake,  are  exaggerated 
for  the  purpose  of  making  them  "strong,"  they 
will  be  cast  out  by  the  spiritual  imagination  of 
the  race,  forgotten,  till  they  lose  their  absolute- 
ness, appeal  humbly  for  a  hearing,  urged  only  for 
the  sake  of  what  they  can  contribute  to  man's 
blissful  growth  towards  that  type  of  manhood, 
"the  measure  of  the  stature  of  the  fullness  of 

'Cf.  "The  Divine  Image,"  in  Songs  of  Innocence.  W.  B.  Teats' 
edition,  pp.  54-55,  and  "Thie  Human  Abstract,"  in  Songs  of  Experi- 
ence.    W.  B.  Yeats'  edition,   p.  78. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  321 

Christ,"  which  is  what  man,  when  he  understands 
his  thought,  discovers  that  he  really  means  all 
along  by ''God." 

After  the  superb  unrolling  of  dooms,  which  are 
restorations,  the  ''Book  of  Vala"  ends  with  the 
noble  prophecy.^ 

"Dark  religions  are  departed,  and  sweet  science  reigns!" 

The  science  of  God,  to  be  sure,  not  the  prostra- 
tion to  a  man-made  mystery,  called  myster}'  be- 
cause of  its  incredible  senselessness,  masked  by 
false  reverence: 

The  good  of  the  land  is  before  you,  for  mystery  is  no  more.' 

The  science  of  God,  as  the  goal  of  human  evolu- 
tion; viz:  to  know  God  as  one  with  man,  as 
identical  with  the  eternal  man ;  whom  we  become 
day  by  day  if  we  grow  at  all.  whom  to  worshii")  is 
equivalent  to  hatred  for  all  things  unmanly  and 
therefore  also  ungodly;  such  was  the  final  vision 
of  the  prophet,  who  passed  into  tlie  unseen  on  a 
chariot  of  fiery  songs  in  praise  of  his  Maker,  in 
the  seventieth  year  of  Swedenborg's  New  Age, 
and  the  1827th  of  our  Era. 


«Eph.,  Iv.  13. 

•Book  of  Vala.     Night  11.  l\.  361-370. 

3Cf.  Bools  of  Vala.     Night  Ix.  11.   650-676. 


WALT  WHITMAN  THE  POETIC  AETIST.* 


No  doubt  from  time  to  time  one  meets  some  nat- 
ural unspoiled  ear  that  finds  the  rhythms  of  Whit- 
man obvious  and  sufficient.  Such  an  ear  is  twin 
sister  to  a  voice,  equally  natural  and  unspoiled, 
and  both  are  obedient  to  a  soul  in  perfect  sym- 
pathy with  the  master.  For  the  majority  of  the 
duly  sophisticated  readers  of  Whitman,  however, 
who  have  also  been  students  of  the  great  poets 
of  the  past,  Whitman's  rhythms  are  somewhat  of 
a  mystery,  savor  of  the  occult  and  need  comment 
or  suppression  by  some  anti-cruelty  society  on 
Pindus.  They  will  have  no  doubt  pondered  the 
lines  in  Vocalism  that  declare: 

All  waits  for  the  right  voices; 

Where  is  the  practic'd  and  perfect  organ?  where  is  the  devel- 
op'd  soul? 

For  I  see  every  word  utter 'd  thence  has  deeper,  sweeter,  newer 
sounds  impossible  on  less  terms. 

No  doubt  being  only  sophisticated  and  afflicted 
with  the  fair  mind,  they  will  have  postponed  all 
criticism  of  a  final  sort,  out  of  regard  for  them- 
selves, desiring  to  ''keep  vista"  and  allow  for  a 
little  possible  development  in  ''soul"  and  "or- 

*This  paper  appeared  in  the  Conservator  (Horace  Traubel's  organ 
of  Whltmanism)  in  response  to  a  common  request  of  readers  wlio 
had  pondered  my  volume  on  Whitman  as  an  Ethical  and  Religious 
Teacher  (long  since  out  of  print).  It  aims  only  to  suggest  to  the 
classically  trained  what  angle  of  vision  he  might  adopt  towards 
Whitman  for  his  own  greater  edification. 

322 


WALT  WHITMAN  323 

gan;"  but  they  have  been  occasionally  not  a  little 
impatient,  and  who  knows  perhaps  even  a  little 
skeptical  ? 

It  appears  to  me  that  a  few  prefatory  words, 
with  which  AVilliam  Blake  would  fain  have  per- 
suaded a  public — deaf  as  the  proverbial  adder  to 
the  voice  of  this  and  many  another  charmer — to 
thank  him  for  his  wholly  inopportune  gift  of  Jeru- 
salem, are  quite  suggestive  when  read  by  the  per- 
plexed student  of  Whitman's  chants: 

''AYlien  this  verse  was  first  dictated  to  me  T  con- 
sidered a  monotonous  cadence  like  that  used  by 
]\[ilton  and  Shakespeare  and  all  writers  of  Eng- 
lish blank  verse,  derived  from  the  modem  bond- 
age of  rhjiiiing,  to  be  a  necessary  and  indispensa- 
ble part  of  verse.  But  I  soon  found  that  in  the 
mouth  of  a  true  orator  such  monotonv  was  not 
only  awlvward,  but  as  much  a  bondage  as  rhjTiie 
itself.  I  therefore  have  produced  a  variety  in 
every  line  both  of  cadences  and  numbers  of  sylla- 
bles. Every  word  and  every  letter  is  studied  and 
put  into  its  place:  the  terrific  numbers  are  re- 
served for  terrific  parts,  the  mild  and  gentle  for 
the  mild  and  gentle  parts,  and  tlie  prosaic  for 
the  inferior  parts;  all  are  necessary  to  each 

OTHER." 

As  we  let  this  little  paragraph  settle  in  the 
mind  for  a  moment  or  two,  we  perceive  several 
ideas  coming  to  the  surface.  The  accusation  of 
"monotonous  cadence"  blasphemously  launched 
against  Shakespeare  and  Milton  amounts  to  noth- 


324  WALT  WHITMAN 

ing  more  than  the  observation  that  their  rhythm 
demands  a  strained,  unnatural  utterance,  such  as 
*'a  true  orator,"  desiring  to  give  speech  its  full 
meaning  and  full  passion,  would  find  awkward, 
and  as  serious  a  bondage  as  "rhjTue."  There  is, 
no  doubt,  a  delight  in  this  unnatural  utterance, 
but  it  is  not  such  delight  as  is  obtained  from  those 
living,  unconscious  rhythms  which  flow  from  the 
mouth  of  the  masterful,  ingenuous  speaker,  caus- 
ing all  to  follow  him. 

As  tlie  water  follows  the  moon,  silently,  with  fluid  steps,  any- 
where about  the  globe. 

Now,  it  is  not  a  question  of  better  or  worse.  It 
is  merely  a  different  sort  of  delight.  Shake- 
speare and  Milton  strove  to  compel  their  thought 
and  passion  to  obey  pre-existing  laws  of  utter- 
ance. The  repression  of  their  energy  gave  them, 
and  gives  us,  a  joy  of  ''will,"  and  a  sense  of 
''security."  "Whatever  the  spirit  might  intend, 
a  body  was  prepared  for  it,  apparently  from  the 
foundation  of  the  world.  The  boldest,  most  dread- 
ful thoughts,  the  most  agonizing  or  fatal  pas- 
sions, found  an  aesthetic  lord  able  to  keep  them 
in  check — a  tyrant  of  rhythm — that  would  wisely 
yield  them  much  scope,  yet  hold  its  own  in  the 
end  as  vicegerent  of  the  supreme  will  and  pleas- 
ure of  man.  That  the  tyrant  gave  them  scope, 
proves  not  his  weakness  but  rather  his  sense  of 
abundant  power.  He  played  with  rebellious 
thoughts  and  wrangling  passions;  he  gave  them 
some  show  of  freedom;  but  he  knew  himself  all 


WALT  WHITMAN  325 

the  while  to  be  that  fate  to  which  even  the  gods 
bow  gracefully,  and  before  whom  the  titans 
cringe.  He  left  them  the  foreground  of  the  stage, 
and  smiled  from  behind  the  scenes  at  the  uncriti- 
cal public. 

Blake  and  Whitman,  however,  do  not  desire  to 
compel — but  to  expel.  Their  inspiration  is  their 
absolute  and  sometimes  whimsical  lord.  They 
cheerfully  yield  their  souls  into  his  hands.  Not 
compression  therefore — there  is  no  independent 
aesthetic  will  to  exercise  any  dominion — but  ex- 
pression, is  what  they  desire.  Their  thought  and 
passion  create  rhythms  that  shall  not  disguise, 
but  reveal  them  in  absolute  nakedness ;  nay,  more, 
that  shall  set  them  in  the  most  promulgatory 
light.  The  beauty — if  beauty  there  is  to  be — 
must  be  such  as  the  thought  and  passion  inher- 
ently possess,  or  it  will  exist  in  the  beauty  of  their 
unconscious  groupings  or  contests.  The  unity 
will  be  that  of  despotic  inspiration;  that  which 
arises  in  nature  everywhere  at  the  fortunate  mo- 
ment, through  the  triumph  of  the  strongest,  the 
fairest,  the  proudest.  Out  of  chaos  comes  cos- 
mos, out  of  the  furious  multitude  arises  the  dic- 
tator; and  when  no  one  theme,  no  one  feeling, 
produces  an  organic  whole  out  of  conflicting  ele- 
ments, even  then  there  is  the  one  impression,  as 
of  the  sea,  produced  by  the  million  waves  beating 
against  one  shore  in  the  end,  affecting  the  single 
soul  of  the  reader,  and  compelled  thereby  to  sub- 
stantial or  dynamic  unity. 


326  WALT  WHITMAN 

If  the  traditional  aesthetic  procures  us  the  sense 
of  security,  a  subtle  assurance  that  the  will  of 
man  is  lord  over  the  tumultuous  titans  of  pas- 
sion and  the  younger  gods  of  thought,  the  revo- 
lutionary aesthetic  gives  us  the  sense  of  abund- 
ant resource,  of  inexhaustible  supply,  immortal, 
victorious  thoughts,  mutually  independent,  pas- 
sions in  tyrannous,  unsubjugated  multitudes. 
Here  we  get  a  glimpse  of  that  abyss  yawning  be- 
tween so-called  aristocratic  and  so-called  demo- 
cratic art. 

Have  you  thought  there  could  be  but  a  single  supreme? 

There  can  be  any  number  of  supremes — one  does  not  counter- 
vail another  any  more  than  one  eye's  sight  countervails 
another,  or  one  life  countervails  another. 

Yet  there  is  not  chaos  after  all.  For  the  order 
which  we  fancy  due  to  laws  imposed  from  with- 
out, is  really  due  to  the  equilibrium,  at  each  mo- 
ment, of  the  contending  forces,  and  stability  is  but 
an  illusion  arising  from  succession  too  swift  for 
ocular  analysis.  To  this  law  of  unity  we  shall 
again  revert. 

The  rhythms,  witH  what  for  brevity  without  sus- 
picion of  disparagement,  we  shall  denominate  the 
old  aesthetic,  must  always  finally  recur  to  a  defi- 
nite type.  In  the  new  aesthetic  they  acknowl- 
edge no  type,  preexistent,  to  which  they  might  re- 
turn. The  rhythms  are  free,  picturesque,  taking 
their  suggestions  afresh  every  moment,  fearless 
of  discords,  duly  resolving  them,  allowing  for 
long  suspense;  yielding  a  voluntary  homage  to 
some  leading  and  especially  representative  mood 


WALT  WHITMAN  327 

or  thought,  so  that  a  theme  may  come  again  and 
again,  though  never  unchanged;  disporting  them- 
selves in  wistful  or  wilful  variations  on  it,  teas- 
ing with  suhtle  reminders,  rendering  breathless 
with  impatient  suggestions;  sometimes  abreast 
with,  sometimes  lagging  behind,  sometimes  audac- 
iously outspeeding  the  thought  or  feeling,  like  an 
accompanying  light  of  the  eye,  or  a  smile  that  out- 
lingers  its  cause,  or  a  gesture  that  comes  quicker 
than  the  words.  In  the  fullest  sense,  to  be  sure, 
this  description  applies  only  to  AMiitman's  work 
at  its  best.  Still  in  Blake  there  are  many  pre- 
monitions and  occasional  illustrations  of  the  meth- 
ods that  belong  to  the  ''democratic'*  aesthetic  of 
the  Camden  sage. 

Now  the  second  thought  in  Blake's  quoted 
paragraph  that  startles  the  reader  is  the  an- 
nouncement that  provision  must  be  made  for  ^'pro- 
saic" strains  to  utter  the  ''inferior  parts" — be- 
cause, forsooth,  "all  are  necessary  to  each  other." 
The  "inferior  parts"  are  wanted,  if  not  for  them- 
selves, yet  to  give  height  to  the  terrific  parts  by 
their  flatness.  To  conceal  their  inferiority  by 
a  sort  of  rhythmic  leveling,  or  by  building  up  si- 
erras of  cloud  on  the  plain,  so  as  to  rival  the  ice 
mountains  on  the  horizon — were  not  only  a  spe- 
cious fraud,  which  the  reader  would  detect,  and, 
in  our  age  of  "scientific  conscience,"  resent  (and 
who  must  not  resent,  now  and  then,  a  passage  of 
Shakespearian  rant,  or  occasional  hollow  boom- 
ings  and   rattlings  of  phrase  in  Milton?),  but 


328  WALT  WHITMAN 

worse,  far  worse  (aesthetically  speaking)  it  were 
to  lose  the  power  of  contrast — the  leap  of  the  ec- 
static line  out  of  the  abyss  of  prose  rhythm,  to  al- 
titudes where  it  passed  out  of  the  region  of  the 
earth's  attraction,  to  fall  with  accelerated  veloc- 
ity into  the  sun — a  jubilant  spiritual  energy,  that 
hurries  the  soul  to  God. 


II. 

Whatever  his  most  hostile  critic  may  affirm, 
fairness  will  require  that  he  admit  how  far  from 
indifferent  was  Whitman  to  rhythm.  Let  any- 
one compare  the  changes  made  in  such  passages 
of  the  famous  1855  preface  when  utilized  as  ''ma- 
terial" for  the  poems  ''The  Answerer"  and  "By 
Blue  Ontario's  Shore."  Sometimes  a  score  of 
words  or  so  are  transferred  unchanged — but  then 
they  were  already  far  too  picturesquely  rhyth- 
mical for  prose.  More  usually  changes  commend 
themselves,  whereby  concision  is  obtained  and 
greater  musicalness  of  diction.  His  perpetual  re- 
visions of  poems  from  edition  to  edition  were  due 
to  open  air  tests,  declaiming,  chanting,  nay,  sing- 
ing them,  his  ear  rendered  fastidious  by  long  ab- 
sorption of  sunrise  and  sunset  solos  of  birds^  or 
the  orchestral  performances  of  wind  in  the  trees 
and  bushes  and  grass,  or  the  everlasting  sea. 
"Ilis  rh3^thm  and  uniformity,"  to  qiiote  his  own 
words  (In  He  AYalt  Whitman,  p.  16),  "he  will  con- 
ceal in  the  roots  of  his  verse  not  to  be  seen  of 


WALT  WHITMAN  329 

themselves.'*  In  the  thought  and  tlie  passion  real- 
ized is  the  secret  of  the  discovery  of  liis  "rhythm" 
and  "uniformity."  Once  think  and  feel  with  the 
poet,  he  as  it  were  hypnotized  by  him,  and  speak 
out  his  soul,  and  the  "rhjihm"  that  satisfied  the 
ear  of  Whitman  will  delight  yours,  and  the  "uni- 
formity" he  saw  will  flash  upon  your  eye  like  a 
vision.  In  fact,  when  the  "roots"  are  in  you, 
the  rhythm  and  uniformity  will,  to  quote  his  own 
words  again,  "break  forth  loosely"  out  of  them 
"as  lilacs  on  a  bush"  (only  give  the  bush  time  to 
grow  and  bud!)  "and  take  shapes  compact  as  the 
shapes  of  melons  or  chestnuts  or  pears." 

The  more  abstruse  question  of  Whitman's  "uni- 
formity" is  not  one  I  feel  disposed  to  write  upon 
now.  Tlie  analysis  of  such  an  easy  poem  as  "War- 
ble for  Lilac-time,"  for  instance,  will  suffice  to  re- 
veal what  is  the  structural  principle  of  Whit- 
man's poems.  He  has  there  set  himself  the  task 
of  celebrating  "lilac-time,"  the  "bush"  he  loves, 
"with  dark  green  heart-shaped  leaves."  What 
will  he  do?  To  him  the  true  poem  is  better  than 
anything  he  could  feign.  But  the  true  poem  that 
is  his  remembered  and  passionately  loved  experi- 
ence is,  after  all,  a  piece  of  untransferable  na- 
ture. It  is  not  only  rooted  in  definite  space,  but 
it  refuses  to  come  save  at  fixed  seasons.  Besides 
it  comes  again  and  again,  here  and  there.  The 
poet  has  lived  through  many  lilac  times.  He  has 
loved  many  lilac  bushes.  All  these  experiences 
are  the  concrete  material  out  of  which  his  con- 


330  WALT  WHITMAN 

cepts,  ' nilac-time, "  *' lilac-bush,"  are  distilled. 
These  extracts,  or  rather  abstracts,  are  not  val- 
ues themselves.  They  are  mere  representatives 
of  value.  They  are  counters  for  the  easier  trans- 
action of  intellectual  business.  Whitman's  poem 
on  lilac-time  and  lilac-bush  will  be  not  the  dis- 
tillation doubly  distilled  and  beautifully  bottled 
in  a  fashion  that  shall  gratify  the  eye,  but  the  im- 
aginative recreation  of  the  concrete  experiences 
whence  were  abstracted  the  concepts;  the  repro- 
duction to  the  sense  almost  of  the  realities  whose 
values  they  are  taken  to  represent.  Prose  deals 
with  the  abstract  tokens  of  value.  Poetry  causes 
us  to  visualize  the  values  themselves.  So  the 
poem  of  Walt  Whitman  will  give  us  a  list  of 
** things,  facts,  events,  days,  qualities,"  enlarging 
on  some,  allowing  but  one  epithet  for  others,  until 
he  will  give  us  the  very  feeling  of  springtime, 
*Hhe  restlessness  after  I  know  not  what" — all  in 
fact  that  suggests  itself  to  his  mind,  "exhaustless 
and  copious"  almost  as  nature  itself,  at  the  men- 
tion of  the  abstracts  "lilac-time,"  *' lilac-bush. " 
The  law  of  order  whereby  they  are  strung  as 
*' shells"  by  ''children"  is  not  the  order  of  time, 
or  the  order  of  actual  experience,  or  proximity  of 
space,  or  logical  concatenation.  It  will  be  the 
order  of  ''recollection."  That  is,  the  order  will 
be  neither  temporal,  local,  logical  nor  biographi- 
cal, but  psychological.  By  association — that  is, 
resemblance  and  contrast — along  the  lines  of  least 
mnemonic  resistance  will  a  whole  be  created.    He 


WALT  WHITMAN  331 

will  pass  from  the  mention  of  the  sparrow  to 
that  of  swallow  and  high  hole — the  golden  wings 
of  the  latter  suggest  ''sunny  haze"  that  recalls 
smoke  and  vapor,  and  the  shimmer  of  waters 
through  them;  the  waters,  in  turn,  ''all  that  is 
jocund  and  sparkling" — brooks  and  maple-woods 
whose  leaves  twinkle,  and  make  a  music  like  them ; 
from  the  maples  to  sugar  making,  and  the  crisp 
February  days;  from  those  to  the  robin,  the  first 
songster  of  the  year;  through  him  to  the  sprout- 
ing of  trees,  and  thence  to  the  sprouting  of  the 
soul — the  wish  to  be  as  a  bird  gliding  through 
the  air — nay,  as  "a  ship  o'er  the  water."  When 
the  poem  is  finished  you  and  I  have  lived  through 
all  the  springs  of  Whitman,  and  we  know  the 
meaning,  nay,  the  manifold,  physical  and  spiritual 
meanings  of  "lilac-time"  and  "lilac-bush";  we 
have  concreted  the  abstracts,  we  have  realized 
their  values,  we  have  had  the  "true  words"  that 
are  realities,  not  signs. 

On  the  same  principle  are  constructed  all  his 
poems,  more  or  less,  although  it  must  be  confessed 
Walt  Whitman,  for  all  his  conscious  rebellions, 
protests  by  far  too  much,  and  not  so  rarely  is 
blithesomely  inconsistent,  ay,  I  dread  to  say  it, 
very  conventional  and  wholesomely  old-fashioned. 
But,  where  this  new  structural  principle  is  least 
obvious  there  it  creates  the  greatest  amazement  to 
its  discoverer  in  the  end.  AMien  one  takes  a  larger 
poem,  to  study  out  the  "uniformity"  or  vital  or- 
ganic unity,  as,  for  instance,  "By  Blue  Ontario's 


332  WALT  WHITMAN 

Shore,"  after  carefully  rereading  the  materials  in 
the  preface  (as  before  suggested  for  a  test  of 
rhythm)  one  is  more  than  amazed.  One  is  ready 
to  regard  the  law  of  composition  ** concealed'*  in 
such  a  poem  as  the  '*Song  of  Myself"  with  some 
degree  of  reverence.  One  will  not  hazard  even — 
without  much  thought — an  absolute  '* anathema" 
upon  the  ''catalogues,"  no  matter  how  long  and 
terrific.  One  will  be  inclined  to  concede  to  Whit- 
man's biographer  (or  to  Anne  Gilchrist  and  the 
rest)  that  they  would  be  delightful  to  us,  if  we 
had  the  poiver  to  concrete  each  concept  in  turn, 
for  ourself,  to  get  our  poet's  vision  at  each  ver- 
bal suggestion.  For  most  of  Whitman's  readers, 
however,  the  poetic  madness  is  lacking — and  to 
them  the  catalogues  must  remain  horrible  indi- 
cations of  Whitman's  stupendous  energy  of  soul 
and  imaginative  explosiveness  ready  to  devastate 
a  world  of  commonplace  at  a  touch  from  a  mere 
word  which  to  us  is  perfectly  unaggressive,  unex- 
citing, nay,  as  dead  as  an  obsolete  term  whose 
obsequies  have  been  duly  performed  by  the  lexi- 
cographers. 

ni. 

But  our  modest  purpose  in  this  paper  is  to 
offer  a  few  suggestions  to  the  bewildered  student 
of  Whitman's  rhythms. 

Ehythm  in  English  verse  arises  from  the  ar- 
rangement of  stressed  syllables  with  respect  to 
one  another,  and  with  respect  to  the  unstressed 


WALT  WHITMAN  333 

syllables.  If  one  knows  what  are  the  stressed  syl- 
lables, and  reads  according  to  such  knowledge,  the 
rhythm  becomes  audible  to  the  most  unerudite  and 
inexpert  listeners,  the  source  of  a  pleasure  more 
or  less  intense  according  to  his  self-abandonment 
thereto.  Now  in  our  language  the  difficulties  in 
immediately  recognizing  the  stressed  syllables 
(unless  the  rhythm  be  very  obvious  and  mechani- 
cal) are  not  always  few  or  easily  disposed  of  at 
the  first  reading.  Of  course  in  the  case  of  poly- 
syllables the  main  accent  is  fixed  by  use.  Yet 
there  are  even  then  not  infrequently  conflict- 
ing usages.  The  poet  may  choose  the  one  the 
reader  is  not  accustomed  to,  and  the  reader,  ig- 
norant of  the  fact,  may  find  the  rhythm  painful  to 
his  ear.  In  a  language  like  ours,  spoken  over  the 
whole  globe,  in  conflict  with  other  tongues,  sub- 
jected to  the  affections  of  vocal  organs  by  various 
climates,  the  varieties  of  pronunciation  are  apt 
to  be  many.  In  Rome  we  do  as  Rome  does.  "With 
"Whitman  we  pronounce  according  to  Whitman, 
not  according  to  Webster,  far  less,  according  to 
Walker. 

Further,  anyone  who  has  an  ear  discovers 
that  the  same  word  is  liable  to  diverse  pronuncia- 
tion in  the  mouth  of  the  same  man  under  the  con- 
trol of  different  moods  or  with  a  different  inten- 
tion.   We  say  ^^ unknown/'*  yet  in  the  line. 

By  mc  the  hemispheres  rounded  and  tied,  the  unknown  to  the 
known, 

•Throughout   this  paper  Italics  indicate  the  syllable  that  has  the 
stress. 


334  WALT  WHITMAN 

the  necessity  of  rendering  the  antithesis  in  the 
words  sufficiently  emphatic  suggests  quite  una- 
wares to  us  the  pronunciation  unknown,  or  at 
least  un-known.  In  fact,  any  syllable  of  a  word 
may  recover  its  accentual  importance  if  that  por- 
tion of  the  meaning  of  the  whole  word,  which  it 
stands  for,  is  emphasized  by  thought  or  passion. 
Compound  words  are  naturally  more  liable  to  such 
restorations  of  syllables  to  their  full  independent 
worth,  when  the  elements  are  both  still  current 
as  separate  words  in  usual  speech,  and,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  first  strophe  of  the  second  part 
of  ^'This  Compost"  occur  ''apple-buds,"  ''apple- 
branches,"  "willow-tree,"  "mulberry-tree,"  "he- 
birds,  "  "  she-birds, "  "  new-born, "  "  maize-stalks, * ' 
"dooryards."  The  question  presents  itself  at 
once,  shall  they  all  be  given  only  one  word  accent 
apiece,  or  shall  both  component  words  receive 
separate  stress,  the  major  stress  of  course  on  the 
distinctive  syllables?  For  my  own  part,  I  should 
give  them  each  two  word  accents.  This  I  say  after 
reflection  and  careful  experiment.  They  occur  in 
a  series  of  vernal  pictures.  There  is  a  delightful 
superabundance  of  light  syllables,  to  suggest  the 
"rising"  and  "laughing"  of  life.  There  is  a  ca- 
ressing tone  in  these  compound  words.  Usually 
"apple"  gets  the  main  accent,  to  distinguish 
apple  trees  from  pear  trees,  etc.,  and  apple  buds 
from  pear  buds.  Here,  however,  the  attention  is 
called  to  the  "buds"  being  on  the  "trees."  Hence, 
either  the  usual  accent  will  have  to  be  superseded, 


WALT  WHITMAN  335 

or  it  will   have   to   be  accompanied  by  another 
stress : — 

The  tinge  awakes  over  the  willow-tree  and  the  mulberry-tree. 

Not,  however,  over  these  alone.  All  trees  in 
turn  shall  share  in  the  new  life.  ''Trees,"  there- 
fore, should  have  a  stress  as  well  as  ''willow"  or 
"mulberry."  The  same  reason  applies  to  "he- 
birds"  and  "she-birds."  The  separate  sex  func- 
tion of  birds  of  the  same  species — the  conception 
of  them  as  one  yet  twain — demands  the  double  ac- 
cent. Analogy  would  settle  the  case  of  "maize- 
stalk"  and  "dooryard,"  since  appearing  together 
in  one  verse,  as  do  the  other  couples  of  compound 
words.  "New-born"  follows  the  same  rule,  as  it 
here  has  the  function  of  a  noun — making  "l)orn" 
emphatic — while  "new"  is  the  key  of  the  word 
of  the  whole  strophe.  Let  us  print  then  the  whole 
strophe,  italicizing  the  stressed  syllables  for  the 
reader's  convenience: 

"Behold  this  compost\\     heholdit  well! 

Perhaps  |  ei'cry  mite  j  has  once  form'd  part  \  of  a  sick  person  |  — 

yet  I  behold. 
The  grass  of  spring  \  covers  the  prairies, 

The  bean  bursts  \  noiselessly  through  the  mould  |  in  the  garden, 
The  de/ioato  spear  of  the  onion  |  pierces  upward, 
The  apple  buds  |  cluster  together  \  on  the  a7)ple  branches, 
The  resurrection  of  the  wheat  appears  \  with  pale  visage  |  out  of 

its  graves. 
The  tinge  aivakes  over  the  u'lHow-^ree  and  the  mulhcrry-trce, 
The  he-birds  carol  \  mornings  and  evenings  |  while  the  she-birds  sit 

on  their  nests, 
The  younq  of  poultry  \  break  through  the  hatch'd  eggs. 
The  new-born  of  onimals  appear,  |  the  calf  is  dropp'd  from  the  cow,  | 

the  colt  from  the  mare. 
Out  of  its  little  hill  |  faithhiWy  rise  |  the  potato's  dark  green  leaves. 
Out  of  its  hill  I  rises  the  j/eflow  maite-stalk,  \  the  Zilars  bloom  in  the 

dooryards. 
The   summer  growth   is  innoeent  and  disdainful  above  all  those 

strata  of  sour  dead.* 

•In   the  above   piece  an  upright  bar   has   marked   the   rhythmJc 
pauses. 


336  WALT  WHITMAN 

But  several  points  of  importance  have  been 
taken  for  granted.  When  a  verb  in  English  has  a 
preposition  that  is  part  of  its  meaning  separated 
from  it,  it  loses  its  own  accent,  becomes  practically 
an  auxiliary  verb,  while  the  preposition  does 
duty  as  verb.  In  "to  go  over  to  the  enemy's 
camp,"  evidently  *'go"  has  no  accent.  Should 
you  separate  it  from  its  preposition  by  an  adverb, 
as  in  *'to  go  immediately  over  to  the  enemy's 
camp,"  the  case  with  ''go"  would  not  be  altered. 
Wlien,  however,  verbs  which  are  independent  in 
their  ordinary  use  are  by  the  poet  treated  as 
compounded  with  some  preposition,  they  should 
be  so  treated  by  the  reader,  except  that  probably 
the  verb  will  not  wholly  abdicate  its  function,  nor 
utterly  lose  its  accent.  To  ''rise  out,"  for  in- 
stance, in  the  case  of  the  potato  and  the  maize 
stalk,  is  treated  as  separately  accented.  To 
"break  through,"  similarly  uttered,  makes  the 
rhythm  of  the  line  particularly  striking,  as  it  cor- 
responds to  the  " hatch 'd  eggs,"  which  evidently 
Whitman  was  afraid  would  be  pronounced  "hatch- 
ed eggs"  by  some  tinkerer  of  his  verse,  for  he 
carefully,  as  usual,  eliminated  the  "e,"  which  he 
did  not  want  artificially  revived.  The  last  two 
words  of  the  strophe  just  rhythmically  analyzed 
must  come  in  as  two  sharp  staccato  notes.  Only 
then  do  they  answer  to  the  lines  in  the  previous 
strophes : 

7s  not  eT;ery  continent  work'd  \  over  and  over  [  with  sour  deadf 
Where  have  you  drawn  off  |  all  the  foul  liquid  and  meatf  | 
I  am  sure  I  shall  expose  |  sorne  of  the  foul  meat. 


WALT  WHITMAN  337 

In  these  lines  we  note  a  resemblance  not  mere- 
ly of  topic  and  words  but  of  harshness,  ugliness 
in  the  rhythm. 

The  summer  growth  is  innocent  and  disdainful  above  [  all  those 
strata  of  sour  dead. 

The  first  part  of  the  line  by  its  light  syllables 
is  shockingly  contrasted  with  the  last  ,whose  sylla- 
bles are  heavier.  But  a  staccato  utterance  alone 
brings  out  the  full  force  of  the  disgust  and  fear, 
that  want  to  get  rid  of  each  word  as  quickly  as 
possible.  Now  this  at  once  forces  us  to  consider 
the  matter  of  other  stresses  besides  the  usual 
word  accents  of  polysyllables  and  compounds 
that  are  semi-independent.  In  strophe  eight  of 
''When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard  Bloom 'd"  we 
find  ourselves  confronted  with  a  line  wholly  made 
up  of  monosyllables : 

Now  I  know  what  you  must  have  meant  as  a  month  since  I  walk'd 

Clearly  many  ways  of  uttering  these  words  of- 
fer themselves.  The  logical,  the  emotional,  and 
the  syntactical  stresses,  according  to  our  under- 
standing and  feeling,  and  parsing  of  this  line,  will 
offer  a  great  variety  of  rhythmical  interpreta- 
tions. Without  discussing  discarded  readings,  let 
me  give  my  own: 

Xow  I  knoro  what  \  you  must  have  meant  |  as  |  a  month  since  \  I 
xcalk'd. 

The  poet  compares  his  present  knowledge  to 
his  former  ignorance,  nouK 

His  knowledge  is  not  mere  information,  but  the 
fruit  of  a  great  personal  sorrow:  know. 


338  WALT  WHITMAN 

The  mystery,  now  known,  was  long  a  problem, 
one  that  even  kept  him  awake  (for  something,  |  I 
know  not  U'hat,  |  kept  me  from  sleep),  and  re- 
ceives, therefore,  an  emotional  stress:  what. 

The  western  star  signifies  that  mystery  and,  as 
the  following  lines  indicate,  strove  to  express  it- 
self in  a  most  personal  way :  you. 

We  give  no  stress  to  ''must,"  as  it  does  not  here 
mean  ''compelled,"  but  acts  as  a  mere  auxiliary 
to  the  verb:  meant. 

*'A  month  since"  is  an  adverbial  phrase  sepa- 
rating the  conjunction  "as"  from  its  clause,  "I 
walk'd."  In  order  to  make  the  words  intelligible 
we  are  obliged  to  pause  after  "as,"  and  give  it 
besides  a  sort  of  stress  so  that  its  full  binding 
force  shall  be  felt  at  once,  creating  a  rhythmical 
suspense:  hence  it  gets  what  I  have  ventured  to 
term  the  syntactical  stress :  as. 

The  rest  of  our  interpretation  is  obvious.  Now 
this  line,  as  interpreted,  is  undoubtedly  harsh. 
One  may  grant  it  is  more  significant  than  such  an 
utterance  of  it  as  this: 

Now  I  know  I  what  you  must  have  meant  \  as  a  month  since  \  I 
walk'd. 

The  latter  is  undoubtedly  more  musical.  If  it 
stood  alone  we  should  have  no  hesitancy  in  set- 
tling on  it.  But  the  reason  we  can  justify  our 
choice  of  a  harsh,  deeply  passionate  interjoreta- 
tion  is  not  only  that  it  is  forced  upon  us  by  the 
meaning  and  feeling  of  what  follows  but  that  its 
discords  are  resolved,  and  wanted  to  justify  the 


WALT  WHITMAN  339 

resolutions  which  the  poet  has  provided.    Let  me 
give  the  entire  somewhat  difficult  strophe: 

O  Western  orb  |  saiVing  the  heaven, 

Now  1  know  what  |  you  must  have  meant  as  |  a  month  since  |  I 

walk'd. 
As  I  xoalk'd  in  silence  |  the  transparent  shadowy  night, 
As  I  saio  you  had  something  to  tell  \  as  you  bent  to  mo  |  night  after 

nvjht,  I 
As  you  droop'd  from  the  sky  \  low  down  as  i/  to  my  side  \  (while 

the  other  stars  \  all  look'd  on,) 
As   we   wander'd   together  the   solemn   night,  \  (for   something  |  I 

know  not  what  |  kept  me  from  sleep,) 
As  the  night  advanc'd,  |  and  I  saw  on  the  rim  of  the  west  |  how  /u/Z 

you  were  of  u'oe, 
As  I  stood  on  the  rising  ground  in  the  6ree»e  |  in  the  cool  transparent 

night. 
As  I  v;atch'd  where  you  pass'd  \  and  was  lost  in  the  ne</ierward 

black  oi  the  night. 
As  my  soul  |  in  its  irouMe  dissatisfied  |  sank,  as  where  \  you  sad  orb. 
Concluded,  \  dropt  in  the  night,  |  and  was  gone. 

It  is  quite  noticeable  in  this  strophe  that  the 
two  parentheses  are  rhythmically  as  well  as 
otherwise  interruptions.  Kead  the  strophe  with- 
out them  and  the  rhytlim  would  become  over  mo- 
notonous. They  suspend  the  sense,  and  they  sus- 
pend similarly  the  rhythm.  Towards  the  end  sev- 
eral lines  repeat  almost  the  identical  movement, 
till  the  last  line  but  one  returns  to  the  heavy 
movement  of  the  second  verse  and  of  the  first 
parenthesis,  to  let  the  strophe  end  with  the  three 
rhythmic  beats  of  the  last  verse. 

The  so-called  new  aesthetic,  as  it  has  no 
"rhythmic  accent"  (that  is,  a  syllable  otherwise 
light  made  heavy,  for  the  nonce,  by  the  exigencies 
of  the  verse),  recognizes  no  ''rhythmic  pauses" 
which  are  not  also  grammatical  or  rhetorical 
pauses.    When  the  burden  of  the  thought  or  feel- 


340  WALT  WHITMAN 

ing  is  best  implied  by  silence,  or  the  suspense  tliat 
fears  to  know  at  once  definitely,  or  the  exhaustion 
that  renders  breathless,  demand  it,  a  somewhat 
longer  pause  will  naturally  be  made.  This  pause 
Whitman  takes  into  rhythmic  account,  as,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  line  already  twice  quoted: 

The  summer  growth  is  innocent  and  disdainful  above  |  .  .  .  [all 
those  strata  of  sour  dead. 

In  "Out  in  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking,"  the 
fifth  strophe  furnishes  another  handy  instance: 

Till  I  of  a  sudden, 

Mayoe  kill'd,  (  xmknown  to  her  mate. 

One  {ovenoon  \  the  she-bird  crouch' d  not  on  her  nest, 

"biov  return' d  \\  that  afternoon  \\  nor  the  next,  \\ 

Nor  ever  appear'd  again. 

If,  in  the  last  line  but  one,  there  be  not  made 
special  long  pauses  (indicated  by  two  bars),  the 
strophe  will  not  give  the  ear  a  sense  of  rest  at 
the  full  stop.  All  through  the  bird's  song,  quoted 
in  this  rich  poem,  pauses  are  needed. 

Soothe!  1 1  soothe/  j  |  soothe! 

Close  on  its  wave  f  soothes  the  wave  \  behind. 

And  again  |  another  behind  |  embracing  and  lapping,  \  every  one 

close. 
But  my  I  love  \  \  soothes  \  not  me,  1 1  not  me. 

Who  can  fail  to  appreciate  the  exquisite  mel- 
ody, verbal  and  rhythmic,  of  these  lines: 

Over  the  sterile  sands  |  and  the  fields  beyond,  |  where  the  child  | 
leaving  his  bed  |  wander'd  alone,  (  bsre-headed  \  barefoot. 

For  more  than  once  \  dimly,  down  to  the  beach  |  gliding  j 

iStlent,  I  at'otc?ing  the  moonbeams,  |  blending  myself  with  the 
shadows, 

I,  with  bare  feet,  \  a  child,  \  the  wind  wafting  my  hair, 

Again : — 

Listened  [  long  ||  and  long. 

The  boy  \  ecstatic,  \  with  his  bare  feet  the  waves,  |  with  his  hair  the 
aimosphere  dallying. 


WALT  WHITMAN  341 

How  (leliciously  does  he  vary  the  same  refrain- 
like  verses ! 

From  under  that  yellow  half-moon  \  late-risen  |  and  swoHcii  as  if 

with  tears. 
O  under  that  moon  |  whoro  she  droops  \  almost  down  into  the  sea.  \ 
The    yellow   halj-moon  \  enlarged,  |  sagging   dovm,  |  drooping,  \  the 

face  of  the  sea  almost  touching. 

Let  me  transcribe  the  closing  portion  of  the 
poem  as  a  help  to  the  troubled  reader  in  weighing 
the  value  of  these  suggestions  towards  an  appre- 
ciation of  the  technique  of  Whitman.  Surely,  if 
ever  a  poem  in  its  entirety  will  attest  his  genius 
as  rhytlunist,  even  to  the  beginner,  it  is  this  poem 
(unless,  perhaps,  he  prefer  the  ''Prayer  of  Colum- 
bus," which  is  equally  marvelous  in  its  simple  and 
affecting  modulations). 

Demon  or  bird!  |  (said  the  boy's  soul,) 

Is  it  indeed  \  toward  your  mate  \  you  sinfjf  \  or  is  it  really  to  mef 

For  /,  II  that  ivas  a  child,  \  my  tongue's  use  sleeping,  ||  now  I  have 

heard  you, 
Now  I  in  a  moment  I  know  \  what  I  am  for,  I  I  awake,  || 
And    already    a    thousand    singers,  \  a    thousand    songs,  \  clearer 

louder  \  and  more  sorrowful  than  yours, 
A  thousand  warbHng  echoes  \  have  started  to  life  within  me,  |  nei-er 

to  die. 

O  you  singer  \  soZitary,  j  singing  by  yoursf//,  |  pro;Vding  me,  | 

0  solitary  me  \  listening  1 1  never  more  shall  I  cease  perpc/uating  you, 

Never  more  shall  I  escape,  |  nct-er  more  the  rcrerberations. 

Never  more  the  cries  \  of  unsatisfied  love  \  be  ateent  from  me. 

Never  again  \  leave  me  to  be  |  the  peaceful  child  I  was  \  before  what 

there  \\  in  the  night. 
By  the  sea  |  wnder  the  yellow  and  sagging  moon. 
The  messenger  there  |  aroj/.s'rf  ||  the  fire,  \\  the  sweet  hell  withtn,  | 
The  unknown  want,  \  the  destiny  of  me. 

O  give  me  the  clew.'  j  (it  lurks  in  the  night  here  somewhere,) 
O  if  I  am  to  have  so  much,  \  \  let  mc  ha\e  moref 

A  word  then,  \  (for  I  will  conquer  it,) 

The  ivord  j  jfinal,  I  superior  to  all. 

Subtle,  I  sent  up  ]  \  — what  is  it? — 1|  I  /Men;  | 

Are  you  ic/iispering  it,  \  and  have  been  all  the  time,  j  you  sea-toavesf 

Is  that  it  I  from  your  iu/uid  rims  |  and  wet  sandsf\ 


342  WALT  WHITMAN 

Whereto  answ^nng,  |  the  sea, 

Delaying  not,  \  hurrying  not,  | 

Whisper'd  me  through  the  night,  \  and  very  plainly  before  day 

break, 
Lisp'd  to  me  the  low  and  deZicious  word  |  ]  death. 
And  again  ||  death,  |  death,  ||  death,  \  death,  \ 
Hissing   melodious,  |  neither  like   the   bird  |  nor  like   my  aroits'd 

child's  heart. 
But  erff/ing  near,  |  as  privately  for  me  \  rustling  at  my  feet. 
Creeping  thence  \  steadily  \  up  to  my  ear  \  and  Zaring  me  softly  |  all 

over, 
Death,  |  death,  \\  death,  \  death,  ||  death.  | 

Which  1 1  I  do  not  forget. 

But  fuse  the  song  |  of  my  dusky  demon  and  brother. 

That  he  sang  to  me  |  in  the  moonlight  \  on  Paumanok's  gray  beach, 

With  the  i^ousand  responsive  songs  \  at  random, 

My  own  songs  \  awaked  from  that  hour, 

And  with  them  the  /ce?/,  |  the  word  |  up  from  the  waves,  | 

The  word  \  of  the  st^eef est  song  and  a/Z  songs, 

That  strong  and  deZicious  word  |  which,  \  creeping  to  my  /ecf, 

(Or  I  like   some   old  crone  \  rocking  the   cradle  |  swathed  in 

swee<  garments,  |  lending  aside,) 
The  sea  whispered  me. 

I  conceive  it  to  be  quite  probable  that  I  should 
not  have  given  Whitman's  own  utterance  in  the 
case  of  some  words  in  the  quoted  portions.  If 
so,  my  experience  with  ''Leaves  of  Grass"  will 
force  me  to  say  that  I  have  not  caught  his  meaning 
or  his  feeling  to  the  full,  and  have  also  sacrificed 
rhythmic  pleasure  by  my  ignorant  mistake.  For 
of  course  the  only  test  of  correctness  in  any  read- 
er's rhythmic  interpretation  of  Walt  Whitman 
will  be  that,  besides  satisfying  the  ear,  the  meaning 
and  feeling  are  brought  out  to  the  full.  I  am  not 
going  to  institute  comparisons  between  the  "old" 
aristocratic  aesthetic  of  Shakespeare  and  Mil- 
ton and  the  "new"  democratic  aesthetic  of  Blake 
and  Whitman.  Some  of  us  are  content  to  enjoy 
both,  and  this  guilelessly  and  making  no  apology 


WALT  WHITMAN  313 

to  such  as  can  only  get  joy  after  the  New  OljTn- 
piau  Academy  have  issued  a  license,  duly  stami)ed 
by  the  Zeus  of  tomorrow.  Let  the  lover  of 
Tennyson  then  beware  lest  he  deprive  himself  of 
some  part  of  his  legitimate  birthright  by  his  doc- 
trinaire refusals  to  respond  to  Whitman's  really 
potent  spells.  And,  let  the  lover  of  AMiitman  at 
his  best  cease  from  bringing  undeserved  ridicule 
upon  his  master  by  odiously  extravagant  com- 
parisons. Whitman  himself  enjoyed  Tenny- 
son's work  as  much  as  any  man  of  his  genera- 
tion. Yet  Whitman  believed  in  himself,  and  his 
work  was  his  very  life,  and  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  speak  boldly  and  to  write  on  behalf  of  his 
aesthetic  ideals. 


TWO  CONTEMPOEAEY  MYSTICS. 


Mysticism,  in  its  good  sense,  is  an  attempt  to 
realize  the  unknown.  Passing  beyond  the  facts 
and  their  classification  into  the  realm  of  pure 
theory,  one  then  returns  and  utters  in  language  of 
the  feelings  what  the  abstract  ideas  vaguely  ap- 
prehended may  import  for  man  and  his  immedi- 
ate life. 

There  are  two  motives  that  lead  a  man  to  con- 
sider the  unknown.  Either  what  he  knows  is  dear 
to  him,  and,  perceiving  its  end,  he  craves  to  know 
it  once  again.  EnjojTiient  has  only  fanned  the 
flame  of  desire.  He  hopes  the  apparent  end  is  but 
a  new  beginning.  He  dreams  of  what  he  believes 
may  have  begun  as  in  some  sense  akin  to  what 
ended.  Or,  profoundly  discouraged  and  nause- 
ated, yet  not  desperate  enough  to  be  satisfied  with 
any  doctrine  of  annihilation,  he  looks  forward  to 
another  and  different  world  of  which  he  constructs 
a  picture  to  the  imagination  in  a  series  of  denials 
of  all  that  this  world  seems.  Mystics  accordingly 
fall  into  two  classes.  "We  have  of  late  received 
two  studies  of  death  from  different  pens.  Both 
authors  have  been  spiritually  nurtured  by  Chris- 
tianity. Both  declare  their  debt  on  every  page. 
One  is  a  pessimist;  the  other,  an  optimist.* 

844 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  345 

I. 

Maurice  Maeterlinck's  "Tresor  des  Humbles"* 

Few  books  are  more  easy  to  read  and  more 
difificult  to  analyze  than  Maurice  Maeterlinck's 
"Tresor  des  Humbles."  The  elusiveness,  easy 
meandering,  and  graceful  discontinuity  of  the 
style,  is  in  the  original  sense  of  the  word  truly 
amazing.  Many  readings  and  breedings  are  nec- 
essary before  the  mind  wins  that  inner  certitude 
of  having  comprehended  the  author's  design. 
Still  we  have  a  guide  in  the  very  structure  of  the 
book.  We  can  obtain,  besides,  a  commentary 
from  his  poems  and  dramas.  Out  of  these,  name- 
ly, it  would  be  easy  work  to  make  excerpts  which 
should  present  the  reader  with  another  version  of 
"Le  Tresor  des  Humbles." 

The  dramas  are  discovered  to  be  only  oppor- 
tunities for  giving  a  personal  utterance  to  favor- 
ite psychological  observations,  and  to  such  theo- 
ries as  they  might  be  fancied  to  support.  He  has 
attempted  the  creation  of  what  he  calls  himself 

•since  the  appearance  of  this  paper  other  volumes  of  prose  b> 
Maeterlinck  have  appeared  and  been  translated.  The  popularity  nf 
the  author  In  America  Is  to  be  approved.  We  have  enough  latent 
Puritanism  not  to  be  relaxed  by  the  Belgian,  even  If  as  Covontry 
Patmore  cleverly  puts  it,  most  of  your  exoteric  mysticism  tends  to 
Its  ultimate  expression  in  "conscientious  wenching."  Havini?  en- 
joyed Maeterlinck,  both  as  dramatist  and  essayist.  I  mav  add  that 
none  of  his  later  books  ("Wisdom  and  Destiny."  "The  Buriod  Tom- 
pie,"  "The  Double  Garden,"  "The  Life  of  the  Bee,"  "Our  Friend  the 
Dog."  "The  Pleasure  of  the  Hours") — while  varvlng  the  modo  of 
expression,  offer  any  change  in  phllo.dophic  viewpoint.  The  social- 
istic suggestions  of  the  "Life  of  the  Bee"  were  probably  more  in  the 
material  than  in  the  charming  author's  Intention. 


346  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

a  ''statical  theater"  (p.  188). ^  His  poems  en- 
titled *'Les  Series  Chaudes"  (Hot  Houses)  utter 
a  sense  of  tedium,  a  languid  remorse,  a  fearful 
disgust  of  life,  and  a  feverish  craving  for  release. 

The  essays  are,  in  manner,  impersonal,  disen- 
gaged, critical,  and  deal  directly  with  the  inner 
world,  not  the  outer-world  calamities  of  souls  half 
awake  in  another  (as  in  the  dramas),  or  the  hide- 
ousness  of  this  world  to  those  whom  it  confines 
(as  in  the  poems).  This,  however,  constitutes  a 
difference  only  of  literary  method,  not  of  real  sub- 
stance. To  be  sure  it  has  sufficed  to  create  in 
many  a  belief  that  there  are  three  (or  at  least 
two)  Maeterlincks,  champions  respectively  of 
three  (or  at  least  two)  incompatible  views  of  life. 
This  mistake  was  made  easier  by  the  terminology. 
Such  words  as  "soul,"  for  instance,  are  difficult 
of  definition.  "Life,"  "goodness,"  "beauty," 
"profundity"  are  capable  of  equivocal  use.  The 
dictionary  will  not  help  the  critic.  It  is  important 
to  explore  the  "mood"  whence  their  use  pro- 
ceeds. Any  artist  will  of  course  employ  the  most 
attractive  phrases,  those  already  bound  up  with 
what  is  dear  and  holy  to  the  reader.  A  keen,  al- 
most cruel,  eye  must  he  have  who  will  see  through 
the  folds  of  verbal  draperies  the  naked  thought 
itself.  It  is  the  interpreter's  business,  however, 
to  do  this  for  the  reader  as  well  as  he  can.  The 
critic  presumes  to  judge.  In  so  doing  of  course 
he  judges  himself.    The  reader  is  at  liberty  to  take 

'References  are  by  page  to  "Le  TrSsor  des  Humbles,"  7th  edition. 
The  versions  are  always  by  the  writer. 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  347 

issue  with  him — nay,  to  reverse  his  verdict — if  he 
pleases.  If  it  seems  to  the  present  writer,  for 
instance,  that  M.  Maeterlinck  is  not  the  exponent 
of  vital  Christianity,  at  all  events  his  work  as 
interpreter  will  be  of  use,  and  his  criticism  will 
aid  the  counter-critic  as  well  as  any  who  chance 
to  agree  with  him. 

M.  Maeterlinck  has  given  us  a  **  brotherly 
warning"  that  he  has  read  many  abstruse  books 
(p.  103).  Again  and  again  he  shows  us  where  he 
has  culled  this  flower  and  that.  We  can  easily 
conceive  the  "we"  to  be  editorial,  rather  than 
dramatic,  when  he  disclaims  any  such  thing  for 
"us"  as  central  spontaneity — that  is  to  say,  the 
power  to  evolve,  with  external  aid,  systems  of 
mystic  philosophy  (p.  109). 

Plotinus  is  to  him  the  prince  of  transcendental 
metaphysicians.  He  holds  him  to  be  wiser  than 
Plato  for  rushing  in  where  the  latter,  fearing  to 
tread,  drops  on  his  knees  (p.  113).  Euysbroeck, 
the  Flemish  recluse,  whose  chief  work  he  trans- 
lated to  the  confusion  of  the  French  reading  pub- 
lic, leaves  even  Plotinus  behind  and  Maeterlinck 
dares  to  follow  I  Ruysbroeck  confines  himself, 
the  disciple  tells  us,  to  thoughts  of  the  unthink- 
able (p.  102) ;  (prudently,  we  may  add,  for  what 
critics  would  dare  assail  him?  as  soon  threaten 
the  man  in  the  moon  with  your  fist!)  In  the 
works  of  Ruysbroeck  the  disciple  professes  "to 
have  glimpsed  the  bluest  peaks  of  the  soul"  (p. 
155),  whilst  in  Emerson  he  saw  only  "the  hum- 


348  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

bier  hillocks  of  the  human  heart  rounding  away 
irregularly,"  mere  foot-hills  to  Ruysbroeck's  su- 
perb Sierras  I  We  respect  him  for  his  honesty, 
loyalty,  and — courage!  He  has  chosen  his  mas- 
ters; and  whether  ours  or  not,  we  can  afford  to 
confess  that  he  has  done  them  credit. 

M.  Maeterlinck  does  not  disguise  from  himself 
the  fact  that  he  is  at  bottom  a  pessimist.  After 
saying,  for  instance,  graceful  things  of  the  "new 
optimism"  of  the  "good  optimist,"  Emerson,  he 
carefully  classes  him  with  the  "forerunners  of  a 
new,  mysterious,  and  perhaps  very  pure  pessi- 
mism," which  he  evidently  looks  forward  to, 
"for,"  says  he,  "there  is  nothing  more  discour- 
aging than  a  self -compelled  optimism"  (p.  202). 
He  thinks  that  if  a  transplanetary  visitor  came 
to  us,  we  should  give  him,  as  samples  of  human- 
ity, not  Balzac,  George  Meredith  (or  even  Shake- 
speare and  Racine,  for  the  matter  of  that)  but  the 
treasures  of  Pascal,  Emerson,  or  Hello,  so  that 
at  least  we  should  not  be  mistaken  for  "satisfied 
inhabitants  of  this  earth"  (p.  175). 

The  great  question  of  course  for  every  reader 
is :  What  exactly  does  Mr.  Maeterlinck  mean  by 
the  "soul?"  To  answer  this  none  is  competent 
but  M.  Maeterlinck  himself.  We  shall  at  all 
events  conjure  up  before  the  reader  the  "mood" 
which  governs  its  shade  of  meaning,  and  then  he 
will  be  able  to  decide  whether  or  not  we  are  cor- 
rect in  our  view. 

"So  soon  as  we  express  anything  vre  strangely 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  349 

reduce  its  dimensions"  (p.  65).  ''When  we 
formulate  what  in  us  is  mysterious,  we  are  pro- 
founder  than  all  that  has  been  written,  and  great- 
er than  all  that  exists"  (p.  121).  A  malicious 
critic  might  ascribe  the  ''diminished  size"  and 
sudden  shallowness  to  the  exclusion  of  a  flatter- 
ing imagination  which  took  indefiniteness  for  im- 
mensity— nay,  infinity.  "There  is  a  part  of  life 
— and  it  is  the  best,  purest,  and  greatest — which 
does  not  mingle  in  our  ordinary  life"  (p.  G(J). 
Some  day,  perhaps,  "our  souls  shall  perceive  one 
another  without  the  mediation  of  the  senses"  (p. 
29).  A  "new  psychology"  is  announced  which 
shall  be  "transcendental,"  busying  itself  exclu- 
sively with  the  "direct  relations  among  men  sus- 
tained bv  soul  to  soul,  and  the  sensibilitv  as  well 
as  the  extraordinary  manifestations  of  the  soul" 
(p.  38). 

Any  book  that  like  liuysbroeck's  reveals  the 
"true  life"  which  is  inexplicable  (p.  31)  will  yield 
its  key  only  to  him  who  "deserves  it  by  turning 
away  from  life"  (p.  117).  We  shall  in  fact  never 
wholly  understand  it  "till  we  see  the  objects  them- 
selves" which  he  describes  or  alludes  to  "on  the 
other  side  of  life"  (p.  125).  The  approbation  of 
the  dying  is  prized,  for  they,  as  also  he  who  suf- 
fers the  extreme  pressure  of  a  great  sorrow,  are 
"clairvoyant." 

In  the  first  essay  entitled ' '  Silence, ' '  we  are  made 
to  feel  that  there  is  much  in  us  besides  what  our 
consciousness  reveals.     The  agreeable  hypothesis 


350  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

is  hazarded  that  what  we  do  not  know  of  our- 
selves is  better  than  what  we  know.  "Speech"  is 
the  symbol  and  expression  of  the  conscious  life 
of  thought  and  passion.  The  unconscious  life 
cannot,  of  course,  utter  itself  in  words.  "Silence" 
then  is  symbolic  of  it,  since  its  expression,  if  ex- 
pression it  have,  is  voiceless.  Now,  what  lives 
that  life  in  us,  of  which  we  are  not  directly  aware, 
is  the  soul.  The  relations  of  "souls"  are  neces- 
sarily "above  the  reservoirs  of  thought"  (p.  19). 
In  the  element  of  silence  "souls  freely  possess 
one  another"  (p.  17).  "Silence"  is  then  a  nega- 
tive term  for  a  positive  notion,  for  "silences"  dif- 
fer not  only  in  occasion,  as  the  silence  of  calamity 
and  love  (p.  24),  but  they  differ  in  quality  accord- 
ing to  the  souls  they  proceed  from  (p.  11),  and 
when  shared  by  two  souls  may  be  hostile  or  friend- 
ly  (p.  19). 

In  the  second  essay  we  are  told  that  the  "soul" 
sleeps  and  stirs  periodically  in  individuals,  na- 
tions, and  races.  It  "probably  came  near  to  the 
surface  of  life"  in  Egyi^t  and  certainly  in  prehis- 
toric India  (p.  31).  There  were  minor  agitations 
in  Persia  and  Alexandria  and  the  "two  mystic 
medieval  centuries."  In  times  "when  intelli- 
gence and  beauty  appear  at  their  best,"  the  soul 
did  not  deign  to  show  itself.  Greece,  Eome,  the 
seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  of  France, 
for  instance,  were  devoid  of  "soul."  The  Eliza- 
bethans too  were  practically  without  it,  "though 
underneath  King  Lear,  Macbeth,  and  Hamlet"  (p. 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  351 

ISO),  as  also  in  certain  Greek  masterpieces  (p. 
189),  the  soul  vaguely  quickened  as  in  an  antena- 
tal dream.  When  the  natural  man  flourishes  the 
soul  languishes.  The  soul  and  the  natural  man 
are,  we  infer,  contrary  powers,  and  their  perfec- 
tion in  any  age  varies  inversely.  The  soul  clearly 
is  something  unnatural.  That  we  are  now  en- 
tering a  period  of  ''soul"  is  the  purport  of  the 
second  essay,  and  the  symptoms  thereof  are  many. 

In  the  third  essay  the  strange  ''organic  warn- 
ing" (p.  82)  of  such  as  are  destined  to  an  early 
death,  and  the  fact  that  they  seem  to  be  marked 
out  from  the  others,  are  considered. 

"There  are  things  more  impervious  and  deeper 
than  thought"  (p.  53),  for  in  spite  of  ourselves, 
maybe,  we  have  divined  their  case.  Were  they 
"born  to  affirm  that  life  had  no  purpose?"  (p. 
52)  asks  M.  Maeterlinck.  "Who  can  tell  what  is 
the  motive  power  of  events,  and  whether  they  are 
ourselves  or  we  are  they?  Are  they  born  of  us, 
or  we  of  them?  Do  we  attract  them,  or  they  us? 
Do  they  transform  us,  or  we  them?  Do  they 
never  mistake  their  course!"  (p.  54).  That  is  to 
say,  does  the  soul  create  the  fate  for  a  man,  or 
does  fate  create  the  soul?  As  both  are  inaccessi- 
ble, unknown  quantities,  neither  question  is  an- 
swerable. One  thing,  however,  seems  clear :  that 
in  such  as  have  a  clear  sense  of  impending  catas- 
trophe the  "soul"  is  more  nearly  awake  than  in 
others. 

Now  follow  two  essays  that  set  forth  in  care- 


352  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

ful  fashion  the  spiritual  indifference  of  conduct, 
good  or  bad,  and  of  intellectual  development. 
Women  as  viewed  in  the  latter  essay  are  admit- 
tedly inferior,  yet  somehow  in  the  deeps  equal  to 
men — nay,  superior,  just  because  of  their  patent 
inferiority,  since  they  rely  more  on  the  "soul!" 
Woman  sits  at  the  very  feet  of  fate,  and  is  wiser, 
though  a  pretty  simpleton  in  her  resignation,  than 
the  man  who  lives  in  and  by  his  potent  wits!  A 
vindication  of  their  equality  with  men  in  the  "in- 
visible" that  will  hardly  content,  I  fear,  the  wom- 
en of  English  speech ! 

Then  we  reach  three  critical  essays — on  Euys- 
broeck,  in  whom  a  new  philosophic  faculty  (p.  112) 
is  discovered;  on  Emerson,  who  absolves  us  from 
any  necessity  of  heroical  hours  (such  as  Carlyle 
would  have  us  obtain  for  the  sake  of  self-respect), 
pointing  out  that  the  hero  needs  the  approval  of 
the  ordinary  man,  while  the  ordinary  man  does 
not  ask  for  the  hero's  approval  (p.  149),  bidding 
us  revere  our  common  hours  (p.  152) ;  the  last  on 
Novalis  and  his  doctrine  of  the  deeper  self  (p. 
163)  that  "there  is  something  other  than  mind," 
and  that  it  is  not  mind  which  allies  us  to  the  uni- 
verse— but  of  course  the  "soul"  that  transcends 
mind — even  "when  mind  is  becoming  unconscious, 
as  it  is  about  to  become  divine"  (p.  159). 

After  these  three  essays  that  deal  with  three 
sages,  the  first  characteristically  a  master  of  the 
soul,  the  second  of  the  affections,  the  third  of  the 
mind  (according  to  M.  Maeterlinck),  we  have  only 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  353 

two  more  essays  to  traverse  ere  we  arrive  at  the 
last  three,  published  first,  and  to  which  the  other 
ten  serve  only  as  approach.  **Le  Tragique  Quo- 
tidien"  sets  before  us  the  fact  that  not  in  circum- 
stances of  the  outer  man,  but  in  the  suffering  itself 
common  to  all,  lies  the  tragic  sublime — above  will; 
and  in  ''L'Etoile"  we  are  made  to  consider  the 
destinies  of  lives  as  of  divine  origin,  at  least  pro- 
ceeding from  the  ''soul,"  and  responding  to  it. 

The  last  three  essays  (''Invisible  Goodness," 
the  "Profound  Life,"  and  "Interior  Beauty") 
are  really  one.  In  the  first  the  goodness  is  not 
morality,  but  a  sort  of  gracious  complacency  or 
piety,  which  is  a  symptom  of  the  incessant  stir 
of  the  soul  (p.  247) ;  in  the  second  we  confront  the 
means  of  sanctification ;  in  the  last,  the  bliss  itself 
of  the  perfect  realization  of  the  "soul." 

From  this  survey  there  should  surely  result  a 
provisional  definition  at  least  of  what  M.  Maeter- 
linck means  by  "soul."  Theoretically  it  is  an  un- 
known kernel-self,  so  to  speak — we  are  veils  of 
ourselves.  T\lien  we  die,  it,  which  is  our  true  self, 
lives.  When  the  shell  is  broken  the  kernel  is  ex- 
posed. Sickness,  sorrow,  love-sickness,  and  life- 
nausea  are  cracks  of  that  shell  usually  called  life. 

But  this  kernel-self  could  have  no  interest  for 
the  living  man,  since  revealed  only  to  the  dead. 
Ecstasies,  trances,  vivid  transports,  however,  are 
glimpses  of  it,  here  and  now.  "Soul,"  for  us  who 
live  and  are  not  mystics  of  that  extreme  t5'pe, 
turns  out  to  be  a  state  of  consciousness,  as  unre- 


354  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

lated  as  possible  with  sensations,  passions, 
thoughts,  a  species  of  doze  which  delivers  one 
from  the  outside  world;  a  sort  of  waking  sleep 
that  floats  one  out  of  the  region  of  responsibility. 
It  is  producible  by  contemplation,  or  by  the  ex- 
treme emotions  occasioned  by  calamity  or  love. 
Whether  the  theoretical  and  the  practical  senses 
of  ''soul"  in  M.  Maeterlinck  are  really  the  came, 
or  constitute  an  equivocation,  remains  for  the 
reader  to  judge. 

Let  us  now  run  rapidly  through  the  gamut  of  M. 
Maeterlinck's  main  ideas:  "Fate  was  only  once 
adored  without  rival.  She  was  then  for  the  very 
gods  a  terrifying  mystery"  (p.  206).  Now  fate 
is  double :  that  of  ancestors  and  that  of  offspring. 
We  thought  love  a  free  act  of  individuals.  It 
turns  out  to  be  the  effect  on  consciousness  of  the 
desire  for  life  in  the  unborn  (p.  225)!  ''There 
is  no  joyful  destiny,  there  is  no  happy  star.  The 
star  you  fancy  happy  is  one  that  awaits  its  hour" 
(p.  207).  There  is,  however,  to-day  "a  new  no- 
bility in  the  ache  of  living"  (p.  209).  More  im- 
portant than  to  know  the  character  of  your  friend 
is  "to  perceive  his  exact  situation  with  reference 
to  the  unknown  about  him,  the  habit  of  chance  in 
its  dealings  toward  him"  (p.  198). 

These  "habits  of  chance"  (p.  220)  bear  some 
relation  to  individuals;  "events  seem  drawn  by 
certain  thoughts  and  certain  souls"  (p.  220). 
Are  there  not  great  chances  asleep  on  the  horizon 
which  some  too  sudden  motion  might  awake  (p. 


MAETERLINCK  AXD  ALDEN  355 

222)  ?  Some  dare  affinn  {he  does  not  expressly) 
''that  a  beautiful  soul  transfigures  the  saddest 
fate  to  beauty"  (p.  222).  In  the  battles  of  the 
individual  \nth  destiny  ''the  will  cannot  inter- 
fere" (p.  217).  The  "will  itself  is  the  ripest  fruit 
of  destiny"  (p.  219).  "The  ancient  will  itself, 
the  old  will  so  well  known  and  so  logical,  is  trans- 
formed in  turn,  and  experiences  the  immediate 
contact  of  great,  inexplicable,  profound  laws"  (p. 
44). 

In  such  case  as  this,  little  stress  can  be  placed 
upon  morality.  The  sins  of  the  flesh  and  of  hot 
blood  are  felt  to  be  less  important  than  we  sup- 
pose (pp.  67-69).  We  suspect  that  "there  are 
deeper  laws  than  those  that  preside  over  our  acts 
and  our  thoughts"  (p.  72).  "Will  the  lowest  idea 
or  the  noblest  leave  any  trace  on  the  diamond 
pivot"  (the  soul)  (p.  72)?  "God  must  smile  on 
our  gravest  sins  as  we  at  the  gambol  of  puppies" 
(p.  73).  At  bottom  the  soul  does  not  know  of 
any  sin  it  could  commit  which  should  be  its  sin 
(p.  74),  and  the  real  law  being  unknown,  sin  is  it- 
self unknown,  yet  the  soul  feels  guilty  (p.  75). 
Perhaps  the  only  real  sins  are  to  have  resisted 
one's  intuitions,  to  have  "ceased  to  love"  (p.  76). 

Our  real  life  of  soul  is  only  lived  by  chance,  in 
spite  of  ourselves,  from  sheer  absent-mindedness 
(p.  59). 

"Perhaps  we  should  know  too  much  if  we  knew 
all  that  we  know"  (p.  58).  We  reach  God  every 
moment  without  knowing  it  (p.  143).    Smiles,  as 


356  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

well  as  tears,  open  the  doors  of  the  other  world 
(p.  272).  ''Those  who  have  not  been  very  un- 
happy" can  "live  with  souls,"  if  they  have  ex- 
perienced the  ''silences  of  love"  (p.  24). 

The  sage  does  not  require  shocks;  trifles  suffice 
him  (p.  258).  "Quiet,  when  one  thinks  of  it,  is 
terrible"  (p.  182). 

Now  the  sage  is  distinguished  not  by  any  will 
to  shape  himself.  To  be  sure  "it  is  useful  to 
strive  for  the  elevation  of  one's  life,  and  one  ought 
to  tend  toward  summits  where  an  incapacity  for 
doing  ill  is  attained"  (p.  276). 

"Let  us  strive  to  be  more  beautiful  than  we 
are;  we  shall  never  outstrip  our  soul"  (p.  292). 
"No  soul  can  tell  what  is  the  power  of  a  soul  that 
strives  to  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  beauty,  and 
that  is  actively  beautiful  within"  (p.  295).  "But 
after  all  it  is  of  less  importance  to  transform  one's 
life  than  to  become  conscious  of  it ;  for  as  soon  as 
it  has  been  seen  it  transforms  itself"  (p.  267). 
We  require  only  "attention"  (p.  259),  "waiting 
for  fortunate  moments."  We  live,  all  of  us,  in 
the  sublime.  What  we  lack  is  not  occasions  of 
living  in  heaven,  but  attention  and  concentration 
and  a  little  "soul-intoxication"  (p.  262).  "What 
we  want  is  not  a  chance,  but  a  habit"  (p.  266). 
"One  must  be  efficaciously  attentive"  (p.  268). 
"It  is  not  enough  to  possess  a  truth;  the  truth 
must  possess  us"  (p.  269). 

We  have  thus  reached  the  true  use  of  the  will — 
ruling  the  future  by  transmuting  the  past  into  a 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  357 

sad  smile  (p.  222) — by  intense  meditation,  a  spe- 
cies of  self-hypnosis,  attaining  to  the  trance,  ec- 
stasy, the  blissful  ex[)erience  which  is  supposed  to 
be  the  realization  of  a  deeper  self  (p.  1G3).  For 
we  are  invisible  beings  (p.  170) ;  man  beginning 
truly  only  where  he  seems  to  end  (p.  172),  and  the 
''true  birth"  of  ''soul"  being  ''the  first  feeling 
that  there  lurks  something  grave  and  unexpected 
in  life"  (p.  255) — an  experience  which  can  be  re- 
peated (p.  25G),  and  in  any  case  the  "soul"  is 
never  lost  if  once  got  (p.  15). 

Giving  it  the  sense  of  soul-consciousness  (a 
something  so  different  from  ordinary  conscious- 
ness as  to  be,  with  reference  to  it,  tenned  uncon- 
sciousness) we  understand  why  M.  Maeterlinck- 
puts  so  great  a  value  on  consciousness.  To  know 
is  the  only  way  to  become.  We  become  not  by  ef- 
fort, but  by  a  recognition  of  the  forces  which  wait 
to  make  us.  Hence  the  value  of  dramatic  poems. 
Misery  is  their  basis  (p.  211).  We  want  to  meet 
our  sorrows  half-way  (p.  207),  because  they  in- 
crease our  consciousness — which  is  the  only  region 
in  which  we  feel  ourselves  living  (p.  227). 

Of  course  life  is  not  the  passions  nor  violent 
action.  "Hamlet"  has  the  time  to  live  because 
he  does  not  act  (p.  187). 

Love,  however,  has  a  part  to  play;  but  of  course 
it  is  a  love  "of  the  soul"  '  (p.  246).  It 
is  construed  as  a  haunting  memory  of 
primal  unity  (p.  245).  The  truest  loves  of 
the    soul    never    declare    themselves — thev  wait 


358  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

for  another  life  (pp.  59,  60).  A  common  ex- 
perience of  secret  goodness  will  often  assume  the 
character  of  love.  At  all  events,  a  strange  sense 
of  fellowship  results  (p.  250).  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  when  we  love  it  is  not  character  we  take 
note  of  in  the  beloved.  We  laugh  at  open  vices. 
We  believe  in  unseen  virtues  (p.  250).  Those 
who  love  are  always  thwarted.  Hialmar  and 
Maleine,  Peleas  and  Melisande,  Marcellus  and 
Ursula,  Palomides  and  Alladine — all  alike  die  or 
yearn  for  death.  Love  itself,  should  fate  prove 
favorable,  is  perverse.  It  finds  nourishment  in 
mutual  pain.  It  exacts  proofs  of  love  in  the  be- 
loved. Hence  it  asks  not  death,  but  prolonged 
torture  uncomplainingly  —  nay,  passionately  — 
borne  (p.  237).  Golaud  cannot  let  Melisande  die 
in  peace.  To  love  without  reserve,  with  complete 
abandonment  (p.  297),  is  to  be  to  another  as  to 
God  (p.  ?07) ;  and  to  think  of  nothing,  as  we  saw, 
was  to  think  of  God  (p.  377). 

Love  benumbs — love  is  an  ache  and  anesthetic 
at  the  same  time.  To  love  is  to  lose  one's  faculty 
for  noting  ugliness  (p.  305),  to  become  unable  to 
distinguish  between  beauty  that  creates  love  and 
the  beauty  love  creates  (p.  307).  One  grows  uu- 
exacting;  one  judges  not;  one  loves  not  one's 
neighbor,  but  what  is  eternal  in  him  (p.  274).  One 
goes  deeper  than  character  into  the  substance  of 
the  lover  (p.  25) — the  ''soul"  which  is  beyond 
the  reach  of  taint. 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  359 


11. 

"We  fear  very  much  that,  whatever  M.  Maeter- 
linck's good  intentions  may  be,  he  will  not  win 
his  way  to  the  sort  of  readers  he  has  in  view. 

There  are  those  who,  in  ease  and  plenty,  culti- 
vate an  artificial  discontent.  The  fast  life  of 
their  forbears  or  their  own  has  exhausted  their 
vitality.  They  want  quiet  for  life,  isolation  for 
pride,  a  little  fasting  for  appetite's  sake  after  sur- 
feits, after  the  exhaustion  of  the  power  of  condi- 
ments and  stimulants.  There  are  for  these  per- 
sons, nowadays,  no  monasteries  and  convents. 
Besides,  the  irrevocableness  of  vows  would  de- 
mand a  sincere  disgust  of  life  or  heroic  self-abne- 
gation, and  they  only  toy  with  tedium  and  satia- 
tion. 

To  such  person  the  essays  of  M.  Maeterlinck 
offer  a  peculiar  dissipation.  The}^  *^keep  open" 
the  path  from  the  seen  to  the  unseen,  to  be  sure, 
but  besides  they  rest  a  man  for  paths  that  lead 
back  to  the  seen  from  the  "intense  inane."  After 
some  pessimistic  sentiment  of  a  sweetishly  pious 
sort  one  obtains  a  new  relish  for  the  world,  the 
flesh,  and  the  devil. 

Life  is  no  more  a  spontaneous  joy.  To  live  is 
not  enough.  One  demands,  forsooth,  pleasure, 
ease,  sinecures  and  curesins!  These  are  scarce, 
uncertain,  and  soon  spent.  A  new  pleasure  and 
ease  can,  however,  be  wrung  from  pain  and  dis- 


360  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

ease.  Not  the  joy  of  ''seeing  how  much  one  can 
stand,"  with  the  virile  Camden  sage;  but  the  joy 
of  maudlin  self-preoccupation,  of  continual  noting 
of  symptoms,  recording  pulse  beats  and  tempera- 
ture, and  an  hourly  diagnosis,  with  plentiful  self- 
condolences,  tear-bottles  of  Etruscan  model,  and 
pathetic  obituary  speeches,  self-uttered  over  one's 
own  fancy-corpse!  To  such  persons  we  fear  the 
"Tresor  des  Humbles"  will  be  only  too  welcome. 
For,  with  it  in  hand,  they  will  imagine  themselves 
spiritual  saints  in  the  bud — nay,  in  full  bloom  per- 
haps— and  cease  to  feel  anything  like  an  honest, 
conscious  pang;  sending  up  the  stench  of  their 
corruption  as  a  ''sweet-smelling  savor"  to  a  most 
amiable  God,  who  only  smiles  on  their  actual  sins, 
as  on  the  gambols  of  little  puppies ! 

The  source  of  its  immorality  is  not  difficult  to 
seek.  It  is  in  the  antithesis,  mind,  matter;  soul, 
body.     It  is  in  the  subtle  Manicheism. 

If  what  is  conscious  and  physical  count  for 
nothing  when  good,  it  must  do  so  also  when  evil. 
You  cannot  transcend  good  without  also  trans- 
cending evil. 

If  flesh  be  viewed  as  the  expression  of  spirit, 
deed  of  will,  then  at  once  they  one  and  all  acquire 
value.  The  body  as  the  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
works  as  the  fruit  of  faith,  had  their  dignity  in 
St.  Paul's  thought. 

True,  for  argument's  sake,  let  us  admit,  is  the 
notion  that  there  is  a  kernel-self,  and  that  the 
shell  hides  it.    True  that  the  shell  is  corruptible, 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  361 

and  that  the  kernel  contains  eternal  life.  True 
that  in  time  the  shell  must  break  and  rot.  But 
nil  this  does  not  yet  necessarily  imply  any  real 
disparagement  of  the  shell. 

If  the  kernel  is  life,  its  business  is  to  make 
shells.  If  the  shell  is  gone,  it  will  go  to  work 
through  a  long  vital  process  and  reproduce  itself 
(nut — shell  and  kernel)  once  more. 

This  is  what  the  Hindus  called  the  ''wheel  of 
life,"  the  perpetual  tendency  of  life  to  incarnate. 
Believing  this  to  be  true,  their  pessimistic  thought 
set  about  finding  some  fanciful  expedient  for 
counteracting  this  tendency  to  body  forth.  Body 
being  evil,  life  which  produced  body  was  evil. 
The  ''soul"  was  the  terrible  su])erstition,  and  the 
manliest  school  of  Buddha's  faith  quietly  denied 
its  existence,  ingeniously  saving  morality  as  a 
means  to  stop  the  process  of  embodiment. 

And  here  is  exactly  the  glory  of  the  Christian 
religion. 

It  has  through  centuries  held  up  the  doctrine  of 
the  "resurrection  of  the  flesh,"  the  most  noble 
and  forcible  utterance  of  the  glory  of  life,  and 
the  everlasting  worth  of  body.  "Whatever  Scho- 
penhauer may  say,  the  core  of  Christianity  is 
optimism.  It  has  cherished  doctrines  which  in 
pessimistically  inclined  periods  all  the  artillery  of 
doubt  has  been  directed  against  in  vain — doc- 
trines of  the  resurrection  and  the  ascension,  of 
the  Church  as  the  bodv  of  Christ,  and  the  flesh  as 
the  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost.     In  fact,  the  glory 


362  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

of  sober  Christianity  is  that   it  has   vitally   as- 
similated the  truth  of  both  pessimism  and  op- 
timism, noting  the  evil  to  the  full,  perceiving  its 
purpose,  and  crowning  it  with  good.    Redemption 
and  salvation  are  processes   dependent   on   out- 
ward sacraments,  institutions,  doctrines.    It  mat- 
ters greatly  what  we  do,  feel,  think.    The  Holy 
Ghost  operates  through  outward  means.  In  order 
to  hold  fast  these  practical  truths,  it  has  been  will- 
ing to  leave  such  purely  metaphysical  problems  as 
the  one  and  the  many,  time  and  eternity,  the  finite 
and  the  infinite,  unsolved — or  rather  it  has  de- 
clared them  not  real  problems  at  all,  mere  puz- 
zles of  a  sophistic  sort  having  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  life !    In  this  how  much  wiser  unto  sal- 
vation has  organized  Christianity  been  than  all 
the  philosophical  sects  of  Hindustan !  If  we  want 
a  Christian  metaphysics,  we   shall  undoubtedly 
yet  have  one.     The  Hindus  have  had  metaphysics, 
and  have  starved  spiritually.    We  fear  that  M. 
Maeterlinck's  philosophy,  gleaned  a  little  here, 
a  little  there,  has  no  mission  for  the  living.    It 
might  possibly  reassure  the  dying,  but  even  then 
it  would  need  the  practical  test  of  years.    It  is 
surely  significant  that  the  Church  has  never  for 
any  length  of  time  committed  itself  to  the  pessi- 
mistic mystics,  for  all  their  sweetness  and  grace. 
The  fact  is,  such  mysticism  is  an  anesthetic,  and 
the  world  needs  stimulants.    The  fact  is,  it  has 
proved  of  little    or  no  use  in  helping  the  world 
forward.    Fenelon  is  very  charming,  but  a  mad 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  363 

Savonarola  is  more  potent.  A  Molinos  has  his 
mission,  but  a  Luther  is  more  effective  in  the  long 
run.  The  practical  experiment,  the  service  of 
life,  is  and  must  be  the  test  of  religious  theories. 
Do  they,  not  wean  us  from  earth  to  heaven,  but 
make  earth  heavenly?  not  disembody  man,  but 
embody  the  God-man? 


III. 

Henry  Mill  Alden's  ^' Study  of  Death." 

Now  optimistic  mysticism  has  a  remarkable  ex- 
ponent in  our  own  country,  of  whom  I  fear  we 
are  not  so  proud  as  we  should  be.  The  title  of 
this  second  work,  written  in  the  same  spirit  and 
style  as  his  first  anonymous  publication,  "God  in 
His  World,"  perhaps  discourages  the  average 
reader.  One  thing,  however,  one  soon  feels  on 
opening  the  book — it  is  not  written  by  an  amateur 
mystic.  A  profound  earnestness  is  felt  on  every 
page.  A  personal  fervor  of  devotion  pulses  in 
almost  every  sentence.  The  dedication  startles 
us:  to  his  wife,  on  her  death-bed.  Never  were 
tenderer,  more  reverent  words  spoken;  if  not  as 
rapturous  as  those  of  Robert  to  Elizabeth  Brown- 
ing, they  are  as  sincere  and  full  of  holy  love. 

**  Modern  religious  mysticism,  .  .  .  dis- 
posed to  sacrifice  nature  to  the  supernatural,  . 
.  .  falls  into  the  slough  of  pessimism.  Only 
the  blood  that  leaps  into  the  quick  and  full  pulsa- 


364  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

tions  of  earthly  life  can  have  an  elastic  rebound 
to  its  eternal  font"  (p.  49).  That  is  his  protest 
and  fundamental  conviction  in  one  sentence. 
''Faith  in  life — such  faith  as  to  give  no  credence 
to  apparent  diminution  as  signs  of  weakness,  see- 
ing in  them  rather  the  intimations  of  some  mighty 
transformation"  (pp.  47,  48).  ''The  Angel  of 
Life,  who  out  of  the  rich  darkness  puts  forth  the 
blade  and  bud  and  babe;  all  the  fresh  and  tender 
luxuriance  of  growth  is  but  the  imagery  of  his 
abundance"  (pp.  45,  46). 

The  work  itself  is  written  in  an  exquisitely 
compact  style.  It  bears  several  readings  not  be- 
cause it  "amazes"  by  incoherency,  by  the  lack  of 
distinct  classification  of  matter  and  firm  procedure 
of  thought,  but  because  the  style  has  a  richness  of 
suggestion — "more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear." 
Surprises  encounter  us  constantly. 

"To  all  manifest  existence  we  apply  the  term 
nature  (natura),  which  means  forever  being  born; 
and  on  its  vanishing  side  it  is  moritiira  or  'forever 
dying'  "  (p.  17).  Apart  from  such  felicitous  use 
of  philology,  words  are  constantly  employed  in 
their  primary  senses. 

Eepentance,  absolution,  forgiveness,  turn  out 
to  have  new  values  which  are  the  old.  So,  ab- 
stract words  and  ideas  are  knit  back  to  their 
picturesque,  material  sources,  to  the  evident  sat- 
isfaction of  our  genial  author,  who,  though  highly 
spiritual,  is  reverently  carnal  also.  "The  priest 
forged  the  thunderbolts  of  heaven  for  the  enforce- 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  365 

inent  of  the  civil  edict"  (p.  151).  How  delight- 
fully delicate  is  the  insinuation!  Hardly  ever 
does  he  err.  "But"  is  repeated  within  seven 
words  of  itself  (p.  113);  ''might,"  within  nine 
(p.  120) ;  an  infinitive  is  split — ''to  .  .  .  cheer- 
fully receive"  (p.  171);  with  "little"  as  subject 
we  have  "enter"  in  the  plural.  His  antitheses 
are  pointed  by  the  use  of  similar  words,  and  this, 
occasionally,  is  done  oftener  than  the  reader  may 
enjoy;  strain  and  restraint  (p.  210),  assistance, 
resistance,  etc.  But  this  is  no  doubt  due  to  a  de- 
sire for  clearness.  Such  blemishes  are  trifles.  A 
revision  would  remove  them.  As  to  the  learning, 
it  is  used  in  a  most  unpedantic  way.  Sometimes 
he  quotes  from  memory,  one  would  think,  and  the 
memory  is  proverbially  deceitful.  St.  Paul  is 
credited  with  a  verse  of  St.  James  (p.  271).  See 
James  i.  27.  "Eesist  not  him  that  is  evil,"  is 
read,  "resist  not  evil,"  a  possible  but  rather  un- 
likely reading  (p.  231). 

We  make  these  trivial  suggestions  not  because 
we  are  disposed  to  carp,  but  just  for  the  reasor 
that  we  love  the  book,  and  desire  to  tell  the  readei 
that  a  very  close  perusal  will  reveal  at  most  hali 
a  dozen  slight  infelicities,  or  inaccuracies,  which 
in  so  large  a  work  is  surely  remarkable. 

AVriters  of  English  never  seem  to  be  impeccable 
stylists,  as  the  French;  it  is  probably  because  we 
are  less  fastidious  readers,  and  have  more  rever- 
ence for  deeds  than  words.  Still,  perfection, 
whenever   attainable,  is   to   be  desired   even  in 


366  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

English.  Not  that  we  should  wholly  anathema- 
tize a  Carlyle  or  a  Whitman ;  for  literary  barbar- 
ians are  picturesque  in  their  way.  A  literary 
gentleman  cannot  do  with  grace  even  once  what 
they  can  do  day  by  day  sans  peur  et  sans  re- 
proche. 

Now,  as  to  the  structure  of  the  book.  The 
proem  is  a  symbolic  interpretation  of  the  story  of 
the  temptation,  ''The  Dove  and  the  Serpent." 
First,  the  denial  of  evil,  from  sheer  ignorance  or 
reckless  joy  in  good ;  then  good  and  evil,  a  broken 
world,  a  divided  will;  then  good  from  evil — the 
reunion  in  the  complete  man  of  what  in  ''human 
thought  had  been  put  asunder"  (p.  5).  The  proem 
is  indeed  a  poem,  stating  the  real  problem  which 
*'The  Study  of  Death"  addresses  itself  to  solve. 

In  the  first  book  two  visions  of  death  are  con- 
trasted. He  tells  us  that  "the  operations  of  na- 
ture, .  .  .  being  forever  recurrent,  cultivate 
in  us  the  habit  of  expectation,  so  that  we  refuse 
to  accept  finality"  (p.  9).  Fronting  the  corpse 
**we  are  in  no  presence;  it  is  the  brutal  fact  of  ab- 
sence that  stares  us  in  the  face"  (p.  10).  In- 
stead of  "a  new  synthesis,"  "we  shall  see  disso- 
lution, a  sinking  analytic  motion"  (p.  11).  But 
the  mystic's  eye  sees  farther.  "Life  came  upon 
the  wing  of  death,  and  so  departs."  The 
"trope," — that  is  to  say,  a  movement  that  returns 
upon  itself,  to  start  afresh — is  universal.  "It  is 
proper  to  life  itself"  (p.  15),  "as  proper  to  life 
as  life"  (p.  17).    "The  idea  of  life  as  transcend- 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  367 

ing  any  individual  embodiment  is  as  germane  to 
science  as  it  is  to  faith"  (p.  17).  ''Sleep  is  the 
hierophant  of  a  minor  mystery,  folding  us  in  his 
mantle  of  darkness,  renewing  the  world's  desire, 
recovering  time.  Death  within  the  veil  instan- 
taneously and  every  instant  transforms  life  from 
its  very  source,  recovering  eternity.  Sleep  is  re- 
creation. Death  is  the  mighty  negative,  whereby 
all  worlds  vanish  into  that  nothing  from  which  all 
worlds  are  made,  the  vast  in-breathing  of  the 
Spirit  of  God  for  his  ever-repeated  fiat  of  crea- 
tion. Sleep  suspends  the  individuality  within  its 
embodiment.  Death  shows  the  inmost  personal- 
ity in  a  divine  presence — that  angel  of  each  one  of 
us  which  forever  beholds  the  face  of  the  Father'* 
(p.  21). 

In  the  second  book  we  have  a  most  fascinating 
reconstruction  of  the  primitive  world  of  men: 
"Native  impressions,"  He  finely  says  that  when 
we  speak  of  the  old  superstitions  ''we  juggle  with 
the  dry  twigs  of  what  was  the  green  tree  of  life" 
(p.  34).  AVe  must  be  careful  to  preserv^e  the 
sympathetic  attitude  if  we  would  understand  what 
the  "superstitions"  really  signified  to  those  who 
believed  in  them. 

"Among  primitive  peoples  we  find  no  allusion 
to  a  future  state"  (p.  35).  "The  domain  to  which 
death  introduces  the  soul  was  thought  of  as  a  past 
rather  than  a  future"  (p.  37).  Then,  "not  only 
were  the  springs  of  life  mere  divine,  but  its  whole 
procedure  so  entirely  divine  tliat  to  think  of  it  as 


368  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

a  probation  or  an  experiment  would  have  seemed 
blasphemous"  (p.  37).  *' Death"  was  thought  of 
*'as  divinisation,"  a  "restoration  of  latent  powers 
through  descent,  and  by  way  of  darkness"  (p. 
39).  *'The  dead  were  mightier  than  the  living" 
(p.  39).  S,oon,  however,  with  the  advance  of 
civilization  (p.  44),  man  forgot  **the  earth"  (p. 
36),  **God  removed  from  this  world  to  his 
heaven,"  and  ''death  became  the  dread  descent 
into  that  shadowy  realm  of  impotence  and  insig- 
nificance" (p.  43).  The  Eumenides  became  the 
avenging  furies  (p.  44). 

The  ''denunciation  of  selfhood"  had  no  place 
in  primitive  mysticism  (p.  50).  "We  say  that  a 
man  is  born  alone  and  that  he  dies  alone;  but  he 
is  born  of  his  kind,  and  to  his  kind  he  dies"  (p. 
50).  Only  in  fellowship  can  he  find  himself  (p. 
51).  Man  loves  not  the  world,  nor  self,  until  he 
has  loved  his  kind  (p.  51).  "Individuation  is  for 
love.  Even  crime  will  compel  solidarity"  (p.  51). 
Selfhood  is  but  the  reflex  of  fellowship  (p.  51). 
"A  subjective  mysticism  contemplating  as  possi- 
ble the  exclusion  of  selfhood  by  an  influx  of  di- 
vine life,  is  irrational — it  is  expansion  of  self- 
hood— that  provides  a  great  chamber  for  the 
Lord"  (p.  52). 

"He  who  denies  resurrection  as  fresh  embodi- 
ment sets  his  face  against  the  mortal  hope"  (p. 
54).  "The  ultimate  mysticism  will  be  that  of 
science  vitalized  by  the  Christian  faith,  and  of 
that  faith  illuminated  in  all  its  outward  range  by 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  369 

science.  .  .  .  Christianity  will  again  accept 
nature,  as  indeed  it  did  in  its  prime,  holding  it  to 
be  one  with  the  Lord"  (p.  54), 

Mr.  Alden  points  out  how  the  Greeks  turned 
from  **the  Olympian  dynasty  of  gods,  hopelessly 
immortal  ...  to  gods  that  could  die  and 
grieve"  (p.  57).  ''The  primitive  faith  accepted 
death  and  evil  as  it  accepted  darkness  and  frost, 
and  at  the  same  time  regarded  them  as  parts  of 
Love's  cycle.  Thus  it  emphasized  the  limitless 
divine  bounty  and  indulgence"  (p.  58).  ''Science 
itself,"  he  says,  "brings  the  human  reason  back 
to  the  recognition  of  evil — or  what  we  call  evil — 
as  a  reaction  proper  to  life  in  all  its  manifesta- 
tions, divine  or  human"  (p.  62).  Christianity,  he 
believes,  will  complete  its  cycle,  in  a  return  to  that 
principle  (p.  62). 

But  the  third  book  is  the  great  section  of  the 
"Study  of  Death." 

The  "Prodigal  Son"  is  viewed  as  cosmic  para- 
ble, and  there  are  a  dozen  poems  in  this  part.  To 
give  an  adequate  notion  of  its  depth  and  beauty  by 
excerpts  is  impossible.  The  planet  being  the 
prodigal,  the  sun,  the  father  in  the  solar  system 
(pp.  70-72,  286-288),  is  as  sublime  a  thing  by  it- 
self as  one  will  easily  find  anj^wHere  in  literature. 

Mr.  Alden,  a  devout  student  of  all  the  scientist 
has  to  offer,  does  not  by  any  means  accept  always 
the  dominant  theory.  In  the  first  chapter  he  pro- 
tests that  from  homogeneity  there  is  no  way  out 
(p.  85).    God  is  always  in  his  world,  and  always 


370  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

working  the  great  miracle  of  creation  (p.  90).  Every 
synthesis  is  a  manifestation  of  a  new  set  of  prop- 
erties— in  chemistry,  in  biological  development  (p. 
94).  These  do  not  appear  as  additions  from  with- 
out, but  as  liberations  from  within  (p.  93).  Death 
appears  hand  in  hand  with  love,  upon  the  appear- 
ance of  the  specialization  called  sex,  which  is  for 
life's  sake  (pp.  101,  102).  Structure  is  for  life, 
not  life  for  structure,  is  the  leading  thought. 
When  we  study  structure,  death,  the  decay  of 
structure  seems  a  calamity.  Really  it  is  a  return 
of  the  dynamic  to  the  static;  it  is  a  storing  up 
for  spending,  a  withdrawing  for  new  appearance. 

Life  is  viewed  as  transcending  structure  (p. 
110).  He  notes  that  life  has  a  tendency  toward 
difficulty  rather  than  toward  facility  (p.  Ill) ;  life 
as  creative — that  is  to  say — not  the  creation  that 
reveals  life  to  us.  Fortunate  environment  leads 
to  degeneracy  (p.  112).  Neither  safety  nor  ease 
is  an  ultimate  objective  aim  of  nature;  ''she  em- 
phasizes discontinuity  rather  than  continuity,  run- 
ning toward  death  in  her  progression,  burning  all 
bridges  behind  her  as  she  advances.  In  the  largest 
view  stability  is  an  illusion,  uniformity  a  disguise, 
the  persistence  of  type  not  an  eternal  concern" 
(p.  112). 

''In  the  very  essence  of  life  is  that  which  gives 
the  meaning  to  our  terms  'one  and  many,'  but  not 
to  the  one  apart  from  the  other"  (p.  129).  The 
planetary  man  ignores  that  he  is  still  in  the  sun. 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  371 

The  solar  man  (p.  131),  however,  is  within  him 
and  knows. 

In  the  second  chapter,  the  ''Moral  Order,"  he 
shows  how  came  to  bloom,  very  gradually,  the 
*'thornless  rose  of  Merit"  (pp.  151,  152).  ''The 
original  sacrament  of  kinship"  is  declared  to  be 
*'the  fountain  of  primitive  piety  Godward  or  man- 
ward."  By  the  expansion  of  kinship  "arose  a 
spiritual  idea — the  idea  of  the  all-Father,  the  per- 
fect realization  of  which  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 
whose  iniquities,  whether  of  pain  or  of  bliss,  are 
as  impartial  as  those  of  nature — a  kingdom  more 
of  living  righteousness  rather  than  of  formal  rec- 
titude" (p.  161). 

The  most  startling  insight  of  this  chapter  is 
that  we  are  concerned  not  with  logic,  but  with  life 
(p.  168).  "What  men  think  it  is  right  for  them 
to  do  they  regard  also  as  the  righteousness  of 
God"  (p.  165).  Moral  order  expressed  a  vital 
requirement  (p.  169).  It  would  seem  more  ra- 
tional, therefore,  to  derive  religious  doctrine  from 
it  than  to  do  the  reverse. 

Now  we  perceive  that  "in  every  social  organiza- 
tion less  inclusive  than  that  of  a  universal  brother- 
hood," the  simple  creed  of  a  universal  Father 
must  be  denied  (p.  166).  Yet  in  this  necessary 
inconsistency  he  sees  no  evil  at  all. 

•'Conscious  restraint  or  rational  control,  re- 
garded as  a  moral  merit,  is  but  a  specialized  form 
of  that  inliil)ition  which,  unconscious  and  un- 
trained, is  yet  a  more  potent  and  surer  bond  in  all 


372  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

natural  operations.  There  is  no  such  temper- 
ance attainable  as  that  which  nature  has  spon- 
taneously— no  positive  purity  like  that  of  passion" 
(p.  170). 

Morality  at  most  is  of  the  structure  not  of  the 
constructing  life.  All  organization  has  its  history 
and  is  for  life.  "All  indurations  are  walls  about 
the  free  play  of  life  within"  (p.  175).  So  the  so- 
cial order,  which,  hardening,  hurts  the  individual, 
really  serves  to  ''secure  the  inviolability 
of  the  individual  and  domestic  seclusion" 
(p.  175).  "The  hard  envelope  about  the 
seed  must  be  broken  for  the  seed's  germina- 
tion." "Its  death  contributes  to  fresh 
growth."  "The  systems,  like  generations, 
pass  away,  not  because  of  their  imperfections,  but 
rather  because  they  have  reached  such  perfect- 
ness"  (p.  176).  The  contradiction  of  principles  is 
merely  the  contrast  between  life  and  structure. 
"The  moral  order  is  that  cycle  of  human  expe- 
rience which,  beginning  in  a  flesh-and-blood  kin- 
ship, is  completed  in  a  kinship  which  embraces 
the  universe"  (p.  180).  That  is  to  say,  it  is  a  de- 
velopment in  man.  Actually,  the  kinship  exists. 
It  is  not  recognized  as  yet.  It  cannot  be — nay, 
perhaps  it  must  not  yet  be.  For  then  the  cycle 
would  be  completed  and  we  should  have  to  begin 
afresh.  For  so  soon  as  the  resistance  of  structure 
ceased  there  would  be  liberation  of  the  life  and 
new  creation. 

The  next  chapter  pursues  the  line  of  argument 


MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN  373 

suggested,  "AVhat  matters  it  if  the  ])lossoms  are 
swept  away  by  the  wind  and  rain,  so  the  fruit  is 
set;  if  the  walls  of  the  temple  fall,  so  the  Pres- 
ence that  filled  the  temple  is  glorified;  or  even  if 
the  entire  structure  of  a  civilization  is  destroyed, 
so  the  race  is  reborn"  (p.  212)? 

''There  is  indeed  no  problem  save  of  our  own 
making.  The  issues  of  life  have  their  spontaneous 
reconcilement,  because  life  itself  is  eternal.  There 
is  in  that  life  a  principle  which  is  creative ;  which 
is  as  unmoral  as  is  childhood,  because  it  trans- 
cends morality  which  makes  not  for  mere  rectitude 
but  for  righteousness,  not  for  betterment  merely 
but  for  renewal;  which  does  not  mend  the  prod- 
igal's rags,  but  brings, him,  home"  (p.  221). 

In  the  fourth  book,  in  four  chapters,  the  claims 
of  Christianity  to  be  the  religion  of  eternal  life 
are  investigated,  and  death  is  finally  dismissed 
as  but  another  name  for  life — of  life  when  gath- 
ered upon  itself,  resting  in  a  "Sabbath"  from  the 
labors  of  what  we  call  a  life. 

The  inconsistencies  and  vicissitudes  of  historic 
Christianity  are  dwelt  upon  tenderly,  honestly. 
He  does  not  make  the  mistake  so  common  with 
literary  men — that  of  judging  spiritual  and  relig- 
ious movements  entirely  by  their  literature  or 
their  creeds  and  catchwords.  He  does  not  fail 
to  take  into  account  that  natural  unconscious  in- 
consistency, that  vital  hypocrisy  (if  so  one  may 
term  it),  which  always  neutralizes  dogmatic  acids. 
He  is  not  in  love  with  that  consistency  which  is 


374  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

mechanical  and  impossible.  History,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  invariably  dissappoints  the  theorist  who 
ventures  into  the  field  of  prophecy.  The  literary 
critic,  too,  even  when  so  keen  and  piercing  as 
Friedrich  Nietzsche,  assumes  something  ''consist- 
ent" to  have  been  historic,  which  any  one  know- 
ing human  nature  ought  to  be  convinced  never  can 
be.  "Competitions  and  antagonisms  are  neces- 
sary to  outward  integration  and  development." 
The  law  of  love  must  perpetually  reconcile  them, 
yet  they  must  continue  to  propagate.  There  is 
the  paradox. 

It  is  this  calm  resting  of  man's  case  on  life,  not 
on  logic—this  acceptance  of  the  apparent  contra- 
diction— which  above  all  else  characterizes,  it 
seems  to  me,  the  sane  mysticism  of  Mr.  Alden's 
book.  He  is  a  real  optimist.  If  he  cries  for  more 
and  argues  for  more,  it  is  because  what  he  has 
seen  and  known  he  has  loved.  He  cries,  ''again," 
"forever!"  He  thanks  the  Father  for  what  is; 
evil  and  hell — sin  itself — he  accepts  as  God  ac- 
cepts them,  needful  to  the  whole,  a  form  of  life 
itself.  Life  rejoices  in  that  play  of  war  against 
itself,  the  division  for  contest,  which  ends  in  re- 
conciliation. What  we  call  life  is  the  contest; 
what  we  call  death  is  the  reconciliation.  Eeally 
both  are  one:  night  and  day,  night  for  day,  day 
for  night.  If  we  live,  it  is  to  die.  If  we  die,  it 
is  to  live.  Not  because  when  alive  we  prefer 
death,  or  vice  versa,  but  because  one  is  spending, 
the  other  hoarding,  and  both  are  glorious,  of  God, 
eternally  self-repeating. 


MAETERLINCK  AXD  ALDEN  375 

In  his  beautiful  dedication  he  says  that  ''love 
never  denied  death,"  and  so  he  believes  "death 
will  not  deny  love."  New  fellowships,  perha})s, 
shall  be  with  the  same  souls.  Not  recognitions, 
but  cognitions.  Cognitions  are  but  recognitions. 
In  our  death  we  may  know  all  our  lives,  and  build 
our  dream  of  them;  in  our  lives  we  forget  death 
and  the  loves  that  there  found  rest. 

But  we  must  leave  the  reader  to  the  books.  Let 
him  weigh  "Le  Tresor  des  Humbles"  against 
''The  Study  of  Death."  Let  him  ask  himself 
which  most  subserves  the  purpose  of  intenser  and 
higher  life.  Let  him  choose.  In  any  case  we  will 
do  well  to  honor  our  American  mystic  whose  gen- 
ial good  sense  and  ripe  scholarship  never  forsake 
him,  who  is  both  poet  and  philosopher — in  fact, 
never  the  one  without  at  the  same  time  being  the 
other;  who  loves  life  and  makes  us  love  him.  It 
is  no  fool's  paradise  he  introduces  us  to.  But 
even  were  it  one — we  ask  once  more  in  the  name 
of  common  sense — ''where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'twere  follv  to  be  wise" — and  is  the  dweller  in 
a  fool's  paradise  such  a  fool  after  all,  if  it  be  a 
paradise  that  can  last  out  his  life?  Perhaps  it 
comforts  the  pessimist  to  consider  himself  "the 
only  wise."  So  be  it.  He  may  have  his  wisdom 
— may  it  bury  him!  Only  let  him  not  be  angry 
with  us  when  we  declare  him  a  nuisance  and  a 
bore  should  he  speak  too  plainly,  and  if  we  should 
ask  him  to  demonstrate  his  view  of  the  universe 
by  bo^ving  himself  out  as  soon  as  possible  I  To 
Mr.  Alden  long  life  I 


om 


7G  MAETERLINCK  AND  ALDEN 

To  M.  Maeterlinck,  at  least,  our  literary  re- 
spect— if  not  our  allegiance.  At  all  events,  we 
will  thank  him  most  cordially  for  never  having 
bored  us  with  a  long  countenance.  Such  grave  ro- 
tundity, embonpoint,  and  good  fellowship,  we  fear, 
belong  to  an  amateur  pessimist  only;  a  delightful 
dilettante  exploiter  for  aesthetes  of  mystic  agon- 
ies, and  we  accept  him  as  a  needful  piece  of  self- 
contradiction,  doubtless  having  his  uses  in  the  uni- 
verse and  assuredly  on  our  center  tables  and  on 
our  library-shelves. 


APPENDIX   TO   ESSAY    II. 


At  the  University  of  the  South  a  course  In  Poetics  has  been 
undertaken  that  may  be  of  interest  to  some  of  our  readers:  — 

The  art  of  poetry  taught  not  merely  analytically,  but  as  the 
creative  art  which  it  is,  by  methods  analosous  to  those  found 
effective  in  the  teaching  of  the  other  fine  arts,  that  is  to  say: 

(a)  By  the  copying  of  master-pieces  to  make  personal  dis- 
covery of  the  creative  principles  involved  {i.e.,  translation.) 

(b)  By  efforts  at  original  production,  such  as  involve  a  close 
study  of  master-pieces  kindred  in  theme,  and  an  application 
of  the  principles  discovered  by  such  study. 

To  eliminate  then  the  personal  factor,  and  bring  the  work  of 
the  student  to  a  severe  objective  test,  the  art  of  poetry — com- 
position, structure,  diction,  cadence,  rhythm,  rhyme,  stanzaic 
division,   etc. — will  be   taught  experimentally: 

(1)  Through  the  translation  by  the  several  students  Into 
English  verse  of  selected  foreign  poems,  of  recognized  ex- 
cellence (i.e.  a  suitable  substitution  is  effected  of  a  secondary 
"written"  poem  to  convey  unaltered  the  "psychic"  or  intel- 
lectual and  emotional  poem.) 

(2)  Through  the  recomposition  of  the  matter  from  some 
master-piece  (unknown  to  the  student),  and  the  subsequent 
comparison  of  his  product  with  the  master-piece,  (i.e.,  a 
comparison  is  instituted  of  new  with  old  "psychic"  poem.) 

(3)  Through  the  recomposition  and  reconstruction,  for 
poetic  expression,  of  materials  drawn,  (with  the  knowledge  of 
the  student),  from  famous  English  prose.  The  propo.-el 
"psychic"  poem  will  be  criticised  by  the  instructor,  and  dis- 
cussed by  the  class.  Thereupon,  the  student  will  proceed  to 
versify  the  resulting  composition,  and  again  submit  it,  first  to 
the  class  for  further  criticism,  and  lastly  to  elected  judges  of 
recognized  competence,  (i.  e.  by  experiment,  the  difference  is 
ascertained  which  exists  between  versified  prose  conceptions, 
and  a  poetic  conception  first  expressed  in  prose,  and  then  In 
verse.) 

877 


378  APPENDIX 

APPENDIX  TO  DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  AS  TRANS- 
LATOR: TWO  LETTERS 


The  writer  ventured  to  address  Mr.  Rossetti  for  definite  and 
irrefutable  testimony  on  certain  points  in  hiis  proposed  treat- 
ment of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  as  a  Translator.  The  result 
was  two  helpful  letters,  which  being  free  to  use  as  he  pleased,* 
he  first  quoted  from,  in  his  text  and  footnotes;  but,  upon 
second  thought,  considered  it  fairer  and  more  courteous  to 
print  entire,  italicizing  the  particular  parts  that  bear  on  his 
paper,  and  let  the  reader  judge  for  himself,  and  share  the 
writer's  gratitude  for  Mr.  Rossettl's  courtesy. 

3  St.  Edmund's  Teebace. 
Regent's  Park,  N.  "W.,  May  14,  1909. 
Deab  Sie:  There  can  not  be  any  reasonable  doubt  that  my 
brother  saw  in  an  edition  of  Leopardi,  or  a  selection  from  his 
works,  those  lines,  printed  as  being  by  Leopardi,  and  such  they 
were  as  a  matter  of  translation;  and  my  brother,  knowing 
nothing  about  the  French  original  by  Arnault,  translated  the 
lines  from  Leopardi's  Italian,  and  assigned  them  to  Leopardi. 
So  far  as  I  remember,  he  did  not  at  any  later  date  ascertain 
the  fact  about  Arnault. 

In  editions  of  my  brother's  poems,  published  by  me  with 
notes,  the  fact  about  Arnault  is  mentioned. 

I  am  not  entirely  sure  what  is  signified  by  my  brother's 
gift  of  visualization.  In  this  present  instance  the  only  visual- 
ization which  he  exercised  (so  far  as  I  perceive)  was  that  he 
saw  and  read  a  poem  printed  as  being  Leopardi's,  and  not 
being  aware  of  anything  to  the  contrary,  he  translated  it,  and 
brought  out  his  translation  as  being  done  from  Leopardi. 

Believe  me,  dear  Sir, 

Very  faithfully  yours, 

William  M.  Rossetti. 


*I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  receiving  your  letter  of  May  25, 
and  I  have  written  down,  as  within,  a  few  observations  bear- 
ing upon  what  you  say.  They  are  at  your  service,  for  any 
use  to  which  you  may  care  to  put  them. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

W.  M.  Rossetti. 


APPENDIX  379 


W.  M.  RossETTi's  Notes. 

A  poet  who  is  said  to  "visualize"  a  thing  or  an  event  is 
thereby  (as  I  understand  it)  said  to  have  before  his  mind's 
eye  a  clear  concrete  image  of  the  thing  or  event.  I  have  not 
the  slightest  doubt  that  Dante  Rossetti  possessed  and  con- 
stantly exercised  this  faculty,  and  all  the  more  so  as  being  a 
painter  as  well  as  a  poet.  I  think  he  must  have  exercised  the 
faculty  in  relation  to  poems  which  he  translated  just  as  much 
as  in  relation  to  poems  of  his  own  original  composition.  To 
take  an  instance:  When  he  set  about  translating  Dante's 
canzone  (in  the  Vita  Nova),  narrating  his  vision  of  the  death 
of  Beatrice,  I  think  Rossetti  must  have  had  before  his  mind's 
eye  a  perfectly  clear  presentment  of  the  personages  and  cir- 
cumstances as  set  forth  by  Dante — a  presentment  of  them 
not  the  less  distinct  than  when  he  later  on  undertook  to  show 
the  same  subject-matter  in  a  picture.  Beyond  this,  he  must 
have  visualized,  i.  e.,  realized  to  himself — Dante's  attitude  of 
mind  and  feeling  in  writing  the  canzone;  but,  if  it  is  suggested 
that  he  realized  to  himself  something  developing  Dante's  mind 
and  feeling  beyond  what  is  embodied  in  the  Italian  canzone, 
I  am  not  prepared  to  adopt  that  view.  To  my  thinking,  it  re- 
mains in  the  region  of  the  uncertain  and  the  nebulous. 

Rossetti  began  writing  original  verse  towards  the  age  of 
six — of  course,  then  and  for  some  years  ensuing  very  childish 
or  boyish  stuff.  By  the  age  of  eighteen  he  wrote  original 
verse  of  exceptional  force  and  artistic  beauty — witness  "My 
Sister's  Sleep"  and  more  especially  "The  Blessed  Damozel." 
Before  this  age  he  had  made  some  verse  translations,  all  or 
most  from  the  German:  the  opening  books  of  the  Xibelungen 
Lied.  Biirger's  "Lenore,"  and  (possibly  before  "The  Blessed 
Damozel,"  Der  Arme  Heinrich  whom  he  called  "Henry  the 
Leper").  His  translations  from  the  Italian  (from  Dante  and 
from  poets  preceding  or  nearly  contemporaneous  with  him) 
began  early;  much  about  the  same  time  as  "The  Blessed  Dam- 
ozel" or  before  the  summer  of  1847.  For  some  years  ensu- 
ing, original  composition  and  translating  proceeded  pari  pas- 
su: the  latter  hotcever  "being  much  the  larger  in  quantity. 
After  1853,  or  so,  he  did  but  little  translating.  The  transla- 
tions from  Villon,  and  the  one  from  verses  which  he  found  In 


380  APPENDIX 

Leopardi,  may  have  been  done  in  1869-70.  I  am  quite  satis- 
fied that,  when  he  was  doing  the  Leopardi,  he  had  no  knowl- 
edge of  any  French  original  by  Arnault;  and  I  am  unable  to 
follow  the  suggestion  that  he  in  any  way  divined  points  in 
Arnault's  poem  not  reproduced  in  Leopardi's  version.  I  have 
found  evidence  to  show,  at  a  later  date,  he  knew  about  Ar- 
nault; but  this  does  not  affect  any  question  relating  to  the 
translation  which  Rossetti  made. 

As  to  "the  relation  between  his  activity  as  a  translator  and, 
the  nature  of  his  original  creation  as  a  poet,"  I  can  say  this 
much.  In  his  original  poetry  we  all,  I  suppose,  recognize  a 
large  amount  of  pictorial  or  picturesque  coloring,  and  a  tone 
of  mind  and  of  expression  at  once  romantic  and  introspective. 
In  his  translations  the  same  qualities  do  unquestionably  ap- 
pear. He  gets  into  the  translations  more  of  these  qualities 
than  he  finds  in  the  poems  translated  from.  I  have  lately  had 
occasion  to  put  this  point  to  the  test;  for  an  edition  has  been 
published  containing  the  text  of  those  early  Italian  poems, 
along  with  his  versions  of  them,  and  I  went  through  the  book 
with  a  good  deal  of  pains.  My  primary  object  was  to  trace 
the  instances  in  which  he  had  misapprehended  the  sense  of 
the  Italian,  or  had  departed  very  widely  from  an  exact  render- 
ing of  it;  and  I  wrote  out  those  details,  and  also  noted  some 
of  the  more  conspicuous  cases  in  which  he  had  infused  into 
the  compositions  a  more  pictorial  or  romantic  hue.  I  sent  my 
notes  to  the  publisher  of  the  volume,  and  they  will,  I  believe, 
be  published  in  it,  in  the  event  of  a  second  edition. 

Rossetti's  original  writings  are  there  to  speak  for  them- 
selves and  any  intelligent  inquirer  can  form  his  own  opinions 
as  to  the  tone  and  faculties  of  mind  traceable  in  them.  /  don't 
think  that  in  his  letters,  etc.,  he  has  left  much  that  would  tend 
to  elucidate  such  a  point.  In  Hall  Caine's  Recollections  of 
D.  G.  Rossetti  a  letter  of  his  is  quoted  (p.  134),  speaking  of 
how  he  wrote  his  prose  tale  Hand  and  Soul  in  one  night,  and 
of  the  peculiar  sensations  proper  to  nightly  composition.  In 
his  Family-Letters  (p.  384),  he  says  as  to  a  conjecture  of  his 
on  an  unimportant  subject:  "But  this  is  all  mere  mental 
drama.''  There  is  another  letter  of  his,  but  I  cannot  at  the 
moment  remember  where  it  is  to  be  found,  in  which  he  speaks 
of  "doing  a  deal  of  mental  cartooning,"  or  some  sucn  phrase 

William  M,  Rossetti, 


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